Pack Up Your Troubles
by Lampito
Summary: God is more disappointed than angry with his wayward Archangels, and decides to send them to Earth to learn to behave more like brothers. Tearfully, they beg him not to turn them into humans. And so he doesn't... COMPLETE. Now includes Special Bonus Feature: Missing Scene!
1. Prologue

I. Hate. Frigging. Plot. Bunnies.

Just when I thought I might get a bit of leave from loony literary leporids, this miserable little thing was paddling around in a pot of soup, of all places. Even after I whizzed it all up with the blender, it was still there.

I think it's Plot Bunny #1 from TJNTPB. Le sigh - speak of the devil and he shall appear. Of course, the little mongrel still hasn't been forthcoming with anything useful, like details of a proper plot, but it would NOT shut up until I wrote this down. Sometimes, just getting something down encourages the little fornicators. I make no promises, but we'll see if this one goes anywhere...

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own 'em. If I did, Bobby would still be alive, Singer Salvage would be being rebuilt, an entire episode would be devoted to arguments about furnishing the boys' room, and I would enlist the help of the Denizens to sit on Sam and get rid of those frigging sideburns. Plus, I'd unpop Dean's collar and nail it down. Then there'd be a tornado that would tear their clothes off, because the Denizens love That Sort Of Thing.

**WORKING TITLE (Which may change):** Pack Up Your Troubles.

**RATING:** T. This fic may contain traces of Dean.

**WORKING SUMMARY:** God is more disappointed than angry with his wayward Archangels, and decides to send them to Earth to learn to behave more like brothers. Tearfully, they beg him not to turn them into humans. And so he doesn't... there will be Winchesters. And Castiel. And the word 'idjit'.

**BLAME:** As usual, I blame the Denizens, who breed plot bunnies and sikk them onto me. Curse you! Curse you! Darn you all to heck!

* * *

**Prologue**

What is Hell?

The answer to that is: it depends.

It depends on who you are, which particular cult of religious belief holds cultural sway where and when you are born and raised, and how many televangelists you are exposed to as a child. Country music may also be a factor. PowerPoint presentations cannot be ruled out.

The problem is that even within a single religious idiom, the men (and it's always men) in the funny outfits and ridiculous hats who take everything so seriously can't agree. Take Christianity. If you were a Christian born during the fifteenth century, Hell was the place of fire and brimstone where you were sent for not doing what you were told by your social betters. If you were a Puritan of the seventeenth century, Hell was a place of fire and brimstone where you were sent for smiling, thinking about smiling, or otherwise just on general principles. Catholics could expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for thinking about sex, Lutherans could expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for thinking about Catholics, and now the followers of televangelists can expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for not sending enough money, even if these guys are more into loud suits rather than funny outfits and ludicrous hats; embezzlement, extra-marital sex and hypocrisy are all okay, though, if some of these guys are anything to judge by, because the ones giving the sermons ought to know, right?

(There is a school of thought that suggests that, if Heaven is going to be full of the sort of people who are convinced that they are going there, then spending eternity in their company would be entirely hellish, in which case, the argument starts to do your head in. I mean, let's face it, if the Almighty is going to have to spend forever putting up with Jimmy Swaggart, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, Ted Haggard, and their ilk, then He must've done something very naughty indeed in a previous existence.)

One way or another, the whole overarching theme of Christian Eternal Damnation can traditionally be summed up in the word: barbeque.

It's fiery pits, it's roasting, it's toasting, it's peeling, it's sealing, it's rotisseries and smoke and flame and endless suffocating heat. Anyone who's watched male members of the family stubbornly attempt to get the barbeque going on a particularly inauspicious day - either in the middle of a howling gale with horizontal rain and occasional small domestic animals, or while birds are falling from the skies with heat stroke while the sun is hot enough to melt small domestic animals – has an understanding of the connection between barbeque, and suffering. Especially if their male family members insist that the tribe join them outdoors to eat either mostly raw or mostly carbonised chunks of mammal flesh whilst either developing hypothermia or risking second degree burns simply by stepping out of doors.

(This has led some pundits to speculate that the architect of Hell, whoever that might have been, was an Australian or a Canadian. Until someone can come back from there with conclusive proof about what beer they drink, though, we can't make a judgement about this.)

To other religious belief systems, 'Hell' is something else. Jahannam of Muslim belief is a place of fiery torment, with Zamhareer being a place of coldness, howling blizzards and desolate ice fields. The Nakara of Hindu belief is a place of suffering where the sinful are purged. The ancient Greek Tartarus is a subset of Hades, the overarching Underworld which houses the virtuous and sinful alike, whereas the Norse realm of Niflheim was the final residence of those who did not die an 'heroic' death, which means pretty much anybody who wasn't sliced into enough pieces to fit under the door at Valhalla. (Given that Valhalla was therefore presumably occupied by largely men who enjoyed slicing each other into bits small enough to fit under the door, drinking until they puked, eating half-raw meat with their hands and sleeping on rushes and furs with the dogs, Niflheim may not be such a terrible option. At the very least, it's probably less noisy and smells much better.)

Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote in his play 'Huis Clos' that "Hell is the others", exploring the idea that Hell is a variable, bespoke concept, tailored to the individual. Also, that the furniture is ugly.

For example, having to read 'Huis Clos' in French whilst learning the language at high school might reasonably be described by students as a working definition of Hell.

The idea of a tailored Hell is closer to the mark than a lot of people think. So is the idea of making your own Hell.

Especially if you aren't exactly human.

Especially especially if you were one of the earliest residents.

The idea seems to be that, once you have been sent to Hell, all other things being equal, you cannot get out of Hell.

It does seem odd that nobody has ever thought to ask "Well, what about visiting another Hell?", considering that the Damned purportedly have nothing else much to think about for eternity, except maybe how hot the brimstone is today, or did you see what beer those fiends were drinking, or can you tell what accent that was I can't even tell an Irishman from a Scot, or maybe even is it just me or can I hear banjos?

Yep, considering the number of lawyers they must have Down There, it does seem odd that nobody ever looked for that loophole.

Well, nobody human, anyway.

Lucifer wasn't human. He couldn't stand the things. But they did have a capacity to try to make the best of a bad situation that he found... amusing. From the earliest uses of language, they had sayings that went along the lines of: If life hands you mammoth turds, use them to pelt your enemies and steal their women. (Thousands of generations later, it had evolved along with its originators, and was rendered as 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade', but there was something about the mental image of hurling overgrown elephant crap at those who'd annoyed him that appealed to him enormously). So, he looked for a loophole, and went visiting. After all, his Father had sent him to his room, but hadn't actually grounded him, right? (There's a reason one of his titles is the Father of Lawyers, although that one was left out of the Bible, on account of just because he's the Fallen One, the Prince of Darkness, the Evil One, The Most Unclean, The Abomination, The Beast of The Pit and the Son of Perdition, there's no need to be rude).

So, Lucifer's social life didn't suffer all that much. He kept in touch with his friend Iblis, fallen Jinn and Lord of Jahannam, with Hades and Persephone of the Underworld, with Lord Yama and Chitaguptra of Nakara, and Hel of Niflheim. He visited them, and they visited him. Skiing on the frozen bodies of the Damned in Zamhareer, water-skiing on the Styx, a spot of purging of the sinful, and a lazy roll in the furs with Hel, he took those metaphorical mammoth turds, and hurled them just as far as he could. Apparently, his Father never appeared to mind enough to pull down the ivy and nail the windows shut, so to speak.

Of course, that all changed when Michael had to go and ruin everything, by getting them both stuck in the Cage.

He was lucky in his friends, though. They were all terribly sympathetic, and when it became apparent that there was not much any of them could do to get him out, they at least made the effort to stay in touch. They even sent him snacks and treats to keep his spirits up, and encouraging postcards. While he was indisposed, that irritating little Crowley character made sure that his mail was stuffed under the door – probably a calculated move intended to curry favour when he got out (and eventually, he would get out), but he didn't care, as long as the snacks kept arriving. Hel apparently missed him a great deal. She sent him terribly racy letters, reminiscing fondly about the times they'd spent together, and what she'd like to do once he was out again.

Lucifer loved those letters. Not just because hey, he was the original practitioner of Lust, but because reading them aloud drove Michael absolutely nuts. Sometimes, the fiends who worked maintenance on the racks would take their lunches down to the Cage and sit and listen to them. Especially if Lucifer had been snacking on the onion and garlic roti that Chitaguptra sent him. If you sat quietly, and tried not to laugh too loudly, you might be able to follow the thread of conversation...

"I tell you, Michael, she is insatiable! Listen to this bit! 'Although it is cold and the snow flies outside, I lie awake and my loins burn for you, as I pant and moan into my furs'..."

"You are a depraved individual, you know that?"

"Know it? Brother, I invented depravity! You want some of this?"

"You are truly unrepentant, aren't you? What is that?"

"Roti. It's very good, Chitaguptra's devas make it."

"It's not the one with the chilli, is it? I don't like the ones with the chilli."

"No, there's no chilli. Garlic and onion. Mmmmm, here, take the box, so I can turn the page and see what else the lovely Hel has to say about my prowess..."

"Garlic and onion? Oh, no, don't you dare eat any more of that, you know what effect it has on you..."

_Pppppp fffffff ththththth rrrrr pppppp_

"Aaaaah. Sorry brother. Better out than in, though, yes?"

"Oh, Father, that is... you disgusting thing! How many times must I ask, do not eat any more of that until we figure out how to, I don't know, open a window or something..."

"Don't be so prissy, Golden Boy. I do not understand how Father's General could be so squeamish."

"Squeamish has nothing to do with it! I am offended by the stench of your corruption!"

"It's nothing to do with corruption, it's the sulphur compounds in allium vegetables. Hey, listen to this bit..."

"I have no wish to listen to your pornographic communications, Lucifer! You are the Father of Fornication, the Father of Filth, The Father of Fault, the Father of Flaws, the Father of... "

"Flatulence?"

"Well, I was going to say 'Falsehood', but since you mention it..."

_Pppppp fffffff ththththth rrrrr pppppp_

"Oh, for Father's sake! There are days, Lucifer, when I miss your vessel. At least I could have an intelligent conversation with him!'

"Right, right, like he never passed gas with a ferocity that frightened the imps in the lower Circles."

"At least he had the decency to apologise! AND I seem to recall, he never invited me to give it a mark out of ten..."

"All right, all right, calm down, Michael. Here, you can have the rest of the baklava that Persephone sent. To make it up to you. As a bonus, I'll throw in another paragraph from Hel. 'At night, you haunt my dreams, coming to me as favoured Prince of Darkness, your rod athrust as you plough my womanfield until I writhe as the salmon twists upon the spear'..."

"Oh, Father, I truly believe that I would cheerfully gnaw through my own left wing to get out of here if it means I don't have to listen to another word from that woman. If it was one of your Hindu friends I could understand it, what with the Kama Sutra, but seriously, who does she think she is? Aphrodite?"

"A moment, brother, the mail is here. Let's see... postcard from Iblis, postcard from Sojobo, junk mail, junk mail, letter... oh, it's addressed to both of us."

Lucifer turned the plain envelope over and opened it. His face drained of colour as he read it.

"What is it, brother?" Michael couldn't help the concern he felt. "What does it say?"

"You might want to grab you wing and start chewing," Lucifer told him, handing over the small card.

Michael took it, and read it.

**Michael and Lucifer,**

**My office, now.**

**Father.**

* * *

There will be Winchesters. And probably Castiel, too. There may or may not be chocolate involvement.

Reviews might encourage the bunny, so, encourage away!


	2. Chapter 1

Oh, I are teh overwhelmed by the generosity of the Denizens in offering their encouragement to me and the bunny. You are all so naise. *sniff sniff* You make me feel useful. So many encouraging reviews for a single chapter, and not a Winchester in sight yet! You must all like the archangels more than you were letting on. I would just like to take a moment to pause, and wave to a couple of Lurkers who have broken cover *waves to Mohawkchere and seaspn*. It is entirely possible to be a Denizen and like Sam's sideburns. Maybe we can work something relevant to them into the DDD&SSS van...

Anyone who is a Denizen of the Jimiverse, or regular Visitor, Lurker or Casual Dropper-In will know that I am not shy about messing with holy writ, by which I could mean Supernatural canon, or the holy book and the beliefs of the people who profess to be followers of the teachings of Yeshua ben Yusef. Since the Jimiverse is officially now completely AU - Bobby is ALIVE and WELL and living at Singer Salvage (which may or may not have been rebuilt, with a slate kitchen floor and assisted flush Kohler toilets and a bidet in the main water closet, although I'm pretty sure that Bobby would never have agreed to the fireman's pole from Dean's room down to the garage), I can mess with any deity or heavenly creature who strays too close to the fickriter's lair. (But if you do find it offensive, leave me a message anyway, because I often find such rantings about the specialness of your Special Imaginary Friend to be highly entertaining, if sometimes badly spelled and ungrammatical.)

* * *

**Chapter One**

What is Heaven?

The answer to that is: it depends.

It's generally acknowledged by the religions who believe it to exist to be a place of eternal rest, peace and happiness. Whether it's Heaven, Paradise, the Happy Hunting Ground, the Elysian Fields, Swarga Loka or Valhalla, it's a place where every wish is fulfilled, every earthly care is wiped away, and the individual experiences contentment forever (and, in the case of Valhalla, reassembly, one presumes).

The Christian shtick is, once again, beset with difficulties to the lay observer, since the men (yep, still a boys' club) in frocks and tiaras cannot give us a consistent or invariant answer as to what it's like, and you sure as hell (so to speak) won't get them to agree on who actually gets to go there. There are circles or tiers of angels, there's God in the middle or at the top (Whom you may or may not see face to face), or, if the pamphlets distributed by those people who go door to door when you are trying to catch up on some sleep on the weekend are to be believed, everybody wears pastel snuggies and sits under trees with apparently tame wild animals and looking pharmaceutically happy.

If you went to Sunday School, you may have grown up with a small niggling fear that it was all just a bit, well, Brave New World. Especially if you couldn't pin down the teacher on whether or not there was parsnips in Heaven. And you never saw anybody in the pictures in those books eating ice cream, or roller skating, or playing Cowboys & Indians, or riding bicycles, or building rafts, or doing any of the fun stuff, just standing around looking happy, while Jesus (who'd apparently taken Ted Nugent as his vessel) wandered around putting his hands on kids' heads. If you liked science fiction, you might've wondered if he was the one going around doing the freaky mind control and making you enjoy it. As you got older, you might've wondered if he was the one passing out the joints, because that would explain the loopy expressions on everyone's faces.

No, in order for Heaven to work, it becomes apparent that there must be a certain amount of variability, customisation and individuality. You only have to think about what would happen if you put the Iron Maiden fans in with the Celine Dion fans, separated only by a thin line of oompah band aficionados – unless there is somebody handing out really good quality mp3 players and headphones at the Pearly Gates, it's going to get pretty unpleasant pretty quickly. And it would only take one passionate entomologist who'd spent a life in academia enthusiastically studying mosquitoes to ruin it for everybody.

It's all about perception, and it's all about perspective.

Take Adam Milligan, for example. Fallen into the Cage with Michael, Lucifer and Sam, he died and his soul simply went back to his idea of Heaven. The fact that his soul travelled with the other three had little bearing on the matter. Perhaps it was because he was never 'supposed' to be there in the first place; perhaps it was because the angels had lied to him; perhaps it was because he was the vessel of Michael. Whatever the reason, in the end, the Cage didn't hold him.

He did stick around initially: when Lucifer and Michael fought viciously, each blaming the other for their predicament, he clapped and cheered, possibly believing himself to be at a football match, or maybe a WWE bout. Neither of the enraged archangels noticed this to start with, until they realised they were being pelted with popcorn. Michael attempted the metaphorical equivalent of a massive backhander; Adam asked for his autograph. Lucifer tried to tear his head off: Adam ordered a hotdog.

For a short time, the angels were more enraged with Adam than they were with each other. Michael striking out in blind anger seemed to make him believe that he was experiencing a roller coaster ride – metaphorically throwing his arms up and yelling "Wheeeee!". That actually amused Lucifer, who elbowed his brother aside and offered to show him how it was done. His attempts to make Adam undergo the trauma of having his skin peeled off resulted in Adam experiencing a very therapeutic massage, if the noises he made were anything to go by. Michael laughed at that. But when Lucifer decided to pull Adam's tongue right out of his head, and Adam clasped him passionately and began to make out enthusiastically, Michael positively howled with amusement.

"At least be consoled, brother," Michael said later, moved to compassion but the look of utter horror on Lucifer's face, "The girl he believed you to be was very attractive, and very... talented."

"I feel... violated," muttered Lucifer. "I was going to try disembowelling him next, but the idea of..."

Both Archangels thought about what the relentlessly happy soul might think it was experiencing if it was tied naked to a rack, and shuddered.

"... Just... no," Lucifer finished.

"A wise decision," nodded Michael. "He is related to Dean Winchester, after all."

Though neither of them would admit it, it was in the end something of a relief when Adam finally just drifted away, smiling sunnily, believing himself to be on a motorcycling road trip.

Perception, and perspective. It's similar for angels.

It's not possible for humans to try to understand how angels perceive Heaven, what with angels being multi-dimensional waveforms of celestial intent – not with a brain that is, after all, evolved to decide which fruit is ripe, notice sudden sharp movements that might be a stalking predator, and use items found in the environment as tools to procure food more easily – but we can recognise the intent, the perspective, of some of their perceptions. We can relate to the concept of magnificent and beautiful architecture intended to inspire and uplift. The concept of home, with all the associations of familiarity, welcome, and family. The concept of feeling that you are where you belong.

And a lot of us can relate to the concept of being called to the Headmaster's office, which is probably the human idiom as close to what Michael and Lucifer experienced as they obeyed the summons of their Father.

"What do you think He wants?" Michael wondered out loud, as Lucifer looked around at the place he'd been banished from for so long.

"I suppose we will find out soon enough, brother," he answered.

Perhaps they 'saw' a long dim corridor with a forbidding heavy wooden door at the end. Perhaps it was a carpeted hallway. Perhaps it was a trek across a tiled floor, their footsteps echoing away to a high ceiling. Whatever it was, as they approached their destination, they detected the grace of two other angels.

Two other archangels.

At which point, the metaphor of the Headmaster's office pops up again, as in 'sitting on the bench outside the Headmaster's office and looking distinctly like children who know they've been naughty and will have to answer for it'.

The four of them gaped at each other, recriminations and accusations temporarily forgotten as they marvelled at the return of two they'd believed dead.

"Gabriel? Raphael?" Michael ventured.

"It is us, brother," Raphael nodded, as if he didn't quite believe it himself. "Father summoned us back."

"But... but... you were..." Lucifer stammered.

"Yes, well, you'd know, wouldn't you?" Gabriel stared back hard.

Lucifer looked ashamed. "I am sorry, Gabriel," he murmured. "I didn't want to..."

"Well, that didn't stop you, did it," Gabriel sneered. "_Brother_. You know, they say the road to Hell is paved with... no, wait..."

"Do you know why He has summoned us?" Michael interrupted, glaring at Gabriel.

"We do not," shrugged Raphael.

"For the purposes of tearing each of us a new one, presumably," Gabriel observed glumly.

Michael looked confused. "A new what?" he asked.

"Gabriel," Raphael began, in a voice that sounded like it was hanging onto rapidly thinning patience, "You simply must stop using human figures of speech – they make no sense, and are frequently offensive, and mostly they just render you incomprehensible."

"A bad habit you picked up," Lucifer agreed snidely, "During your extensive wanderings and associating with humans."

"At least I went out and tried to get to know them before I made my mind up about them!" Gabriel shot back, "I didn't just decide to despise them from the get-go, out of some pathetically jealous sense of inadequacy..."

"And how very fond of the smelly little apes you turned out to be," sneered Raphael.

"It is not right to be so contemptuous of Father's creations," snapped Michael, "Show some respect for Him!"

"Oh, yes, let's be nice to the 'smelly little apes'," Gabriel said airily, "Let's all respect them as much as you, which is to say, let's use their only home as a personal battleground to settle our squabble with Lucifer, no matter how many billions of them will get killed..."

"I was doing what Father wanted!" hissed Michael.

"You were doing what you wanted," Lucifer shot back, "You wanted to defeat me once and for all, put me in my place and show me that I was wrong, and you and Father were right."

"And I failed," Michael went on sullenly, "Perhaps if I had succeeded, Father would not have left us."

"Wow," Gabriel whistled, "I'm impressed. You always were a sanctimonious ass-kisser, Michael, but your time in the Cage wasn't wasted, was it? You been working out?"

Raphael looked confused. "Michael," he said slowly, "You do not... kiss asses. Do you?"

Michael looked equally confused. "I do not understand why anyone would kiss asses," he said. "Bestiality is deemed perverse, and sinful, and cruel by human cultures. Why would I want to be cruel to a donkey by kissing it?"

"I rather like donkeys," mused Lucifer, "Sometimes they are deemed stubborn, but really they are just smart; they don't like to do things that they think might be unpleasant or dangerous. They can be affectionate, and playful, and loveable. If it was just a sign of affection, I think it would be perfectly acceptable to give your donkey a kiss, on the cheek, perhaps, provided it does not distress the animal. Father should've given the earth to donkeys."

"Some would argue he did," Gabriel rolled his eyes, "Likewise, archangels' wings..."

"You are the most aggravating little brother in all of Creation!" Michael snapped at Lucifer.

"No," Lucifer pointed at Gabriel, "He is."

"Me? Aggravating?" Gabriel looked irate. "Just because I didn't want to see you morons murder each other? Is that such a terrible thing?"

"Father willed it," Michael insisted.

"He did not," Lucifer argued.

"He did!" Michael was adamant.

"He did not" So was Lucifer.

"Did!"

"Did not!"

"Did!"

"Did not!"

"Did!"

"Did not!"

The door swung open. The four archangels fell silent.

A voice they had not heard for an age drifted out to them.

"Ah, the ninja turtles are here. Come on in."

"What did He call us?" whispered Raphael.

"Warrior amphibians?" Lucifer looked perplexed.

"I am a warrior, certainly," Michael said, sounding very uncertain, "But I do not understand the reference to the turtle..."

"A metaphor, perhaps?" wondered Raphael, "For a strong, self-dependent, self-contained individual?"

"Come on, guys," Gabriel humphed, "Master Splinter summons us..."

The Headmaster's office analogy broke down at that point. It was more as if He was sitting in a comfortable chair, by a cheerful fire, in a cosy den. There were probably even Heavenly slippers involved, and possibly even a dressing-gown, maybe even a mug of divine cocoa on the side table.

God stood, and took in His archangels. He wondered whether they even noticed that they were clustered together, like a litter of puppies seeking reassurance in the company of their siblings.

"My children," he pronounced in a voice that seemed to them to echo with the age of the universe, the depth of interstellar space and the weight of time since before time began. "My wayward children, I have returned to you. Hearken unto Me for I desire to lay Mine eyes upon you, and address you Myself that you might know My will."

"Father?" Michael finally managed, his response the equivalent of a very unauthoritative squeak.

God swept His gaze over them, noticing how Lucifer and Michael edged together in front of Raphael and Gabriel, and He spake unto them thusly:

"Well, do any of you have a hug for your old Dad?"

* * *

Winchesters will eventually be provided. Please bring your own picnic rugs, sofas, chocolate sauce, restraints and spanking paddles, and form an orderly queue.

Reviews are the Naughty Archangels Bickering In An Amusing Fashion on the Hard Wooden Bench outside the Headmaster's Office of Life!


	3. Chapter 2

Oh, the Denizens are so good to me, giving me teh reviews and teh encourages! Little bunny #1 is responding: he's outlined a rough plot, even if the details are not forthcoming yet. I'll be really busy at werk this week, but I'll keep an ear out for anything further he has to say.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

What is a hug?

The answer to that is: it depends.

Generally speaking, it is a non-verbal form of communication used by primates, usually between friends and family. The extent, duration and nature of a hug is highly variable. It may express friendship, fondness, sympathy, consolation, or a range of other things. It's highly individualistic, and can be used to convey surprisingly complex messages.

For example, Sam Winchester hugs like a happy octopus. He can wrap long arms around his huggee, and wordlessly say anything from 'I need my big brother' to 'Heh heh, I love my big brother and I know it just drives him nuts when I express it like this but secretly I think he likes it because he's never followed through on the threats to break my arms and stuff my own feet into my ears.'

Dean Winchester hugs like an angry, worried vise. The situation has to be serious enough for him to be at the point of raising his non-verbal 'voice' to a bellowing roar before he will consider deploying it like a weapon. It can mean anything from 'I gotcha, baby bro' to 'You EVER get yourself into a situation like that and scare me that badly ever again and I will leave you in the car and nail your feet to the floor where I'll know you're safe if somewhat bloodied and probably left with a bit of a limp and I'll also make you clean the blood out of the floor mats, do you understand me?'

Angels understand the concept of 'hug' as a nearness and contact between individuals indicating fond greeting and familiarity. Cupids are probably the most frequent and enthusiastic angelic huggers, in their true forms or in their physical manifestations. A 'hug', whether it be an intimate and affectionate entwining of their graces, or a body-slamming, belly-laughing, teeth-rattling fart-squeezing-outing target-shaking glomp in the physical plane, is their way of saying hello and shaking hands with everybody from dear siblings to individuals they've only just met. This can be somewhat perplexing, discombobulating or plain bewildering to the occasional human who is introduced to a Cupid, especially if they are easily embarrassed by gastrointestinal symptoms.

Of other angels, Gabriel and Castiel are probably the two who have spent enough time around observe what 'hug' means to them (although if you were to ask Castiel, his observation of the Winchesters might lead him to give you his definition of a hug as 'An invasion of personal space intended to impart a message of love and concern for the welfare of the recipient carrying with it an implied threat of physical containment and potential wounding of the feet in the event of the dispenser becoming overly worried about the well-being of the receiver at some unspecified time in the future. I don't understand why threats of a potentially crippling injury are received so gratefully and reciprocated so contentedly.').

Gabriel was a great appreciator of hugging, both as hugger and huggee – after all, he'd had a girlfriend who had four arms, so he was something of an expert – so he was the one who moved first, a happy comet of grace whizzing gleefully around the whirling galaxy of the expanse of the Almighty, the heavenly equivalent of throwing himself into his Father's arms. After a moment of hesitation, Raphael did the same.

Michael and Lucifer stood, doing the celestial equivalent of gawping, as God looked to them expectantly.

"Always the stoic big brother, Michael?" He smiled as his two youngest archangels extracted themselves and returned to stand with their big brothers. "And Lucifer, you cannot still be sulking..."

"But..." Michael began in a small voice, "We... we thought You were angry."

"Why would you think I would be angry, child?" asked God.

"You left us," Raphael barely spoke.

"And now, I am back," God smiled.

"Are You..." Gabriel gulped, all his usual cocky bluster gone, "Are You going to... smite us?"

The Almighty's eyebrows shot up. "Smite you?" He sounded amused, "Good Me, Gabriel, you are my first four children! Why would I smite you?"

"For disobedience," replied Michael promptly, with a certain smugness suggestive of the class know-it-all, "For defying Your will."

"For running away," Raphael's eyes slid sideways to Gabriel, "For cowardice, and neglecting duty, and running away in the face of battle."

"For arrogance," seethed Lucifer, glaring at Michael, "For overweening pride, and being stubborn and unreasonable, and seeking to supplant Your will with his own..."

"For... for... " Gabriel crossed his arms, and his bottom lip stuck out. "For being selfish, and careless, and horrible, and, and, and, really, really, REALLY... mean!" His brothers turned and looked dubiously at him. "Your stupid quarrel would've killed all the donkeys too, you know," he mumbled.

"All right, Paul, Ringo, John and George, that's enough." God dropped His eyebrows, then raised one quizzically. "If I didn't know," he said slowly, "I'd say that was the sound of guilty consciences talking."

Michael drew himself up. "I have only ever sought to obey You, Father," he said more firmly, "I have sought to divine Your purpose, and apply myself to fulfilling Your Plan."

"I think I may just be sick," muttered Lucifer. "As if it wasn't bad enough seeing you profess love for those disgustingly organic upstart primates, haven't you grovelled enough?"

"I am an obedient son!" Michael barked at him. "I am _the_ obedient son!"

"You are an obedient fool!" Lucifer shot back, glaring at Michael and at God. "He disappeared, He left you, let you stumble about and try to work out what He wanted, take over command in His absence, and now, here He is, and you're prepared to fall on your face and kiss His feet?"

"You should be glad that he is back!" hissed Raphael.

"I will not be if it's just to be told to be nice to that bipedal plague upon the Earth," snorted Lucifer.

God sighed. "Be silent, my children," he said quietly, "There is nothing to be gained by such hurtful argument between brothers."

"No wonder you were cast out!" sniped Michael.

"No wonder you fell into the Cage with me!" yapped Lucifer.

"SILENCE!" boomed God in a tone like galaxies colliding.

Emitting a series of yips, yelps and squeaks, the angels before him clustered together again. Lucifer and Michael clutched at each other, Gabriel shrieked, and Raphael looked just about ready to wet himself.

"Archangels," God muttered, "Archidiots, is more like it." He frowned at them sadly. "Seriously, it's like watching the Marx brothers, without the 'honk honk' bit. I am hurt, rather than angry," He told them, "And very, very disappointed."

Unconsciously, they shuffled closer together, Raphael and Gabriel edging behind Michael and Lucifer. "Sorry, Father," they chorused shamefacedly.

"Are you?" God asked them, "Are you really? Sorry about your conduct, or sorry that I have returned, and have seen what you have done?"

"You wanted us to love them more than we love You," Lucifer mumbled miserably, "And you cast me out because I wouldn't. Imperfect, flawed things that they are, you gave them Free Will, and then told us to love them!"

"Of _course_ I wanted you to love them!" God actually rolled his eyes, "Because _they _needed you so much more! _Because_ they are imperfect! _Because_ they need guidance, and inspiration! They venerate archangels, you know, hold you up as wise guardians. If you'd bothered to get to know them, you'd know that. Though Me knows why they bother, they might as well venerate the also-rans of 'Toddlers and Tiaras', because if they could see you now, throwing tantrums like spoiled children... how old are you again Lucifer? Because right about now you sound like a three-year-old human who's stamping his feet and worrying that mother and father love the new baby more."

"You gave them Free Will," Michael said, "And you constantly forgive them when they abuse it."

"Right, right," God nodded judiciously, "I let them learn from their mistakes, give them second chances, in much the same way I've just let you and your equally bone-headed brother out of the Cage. Oh, and Heckle and Jeckle behind you, I just happen to have resurrected them, and gee, don't I do that for humans all the time..."

The four archangels had the decency to look embarrassed.

"You, Lucifer," God went on, "So resentful over the whole Free Will thing. You silly boy. Didn't you exercise it by challenging Me? By choosing to fight? By choosing not to love My mortal children? By choosing to create your own – and then despising them?" He shook his head. "You thought I despised you, and you knew how that felt, but you inflicted that on your creations anyway. Even in your anger and resentment, such cruelty, boy, such petty cruelty." Lucifer dropped his head and found something extremely interesting on the floor.

"Michael," continued God, "In My absence you thought to rule Heaven. And you probably could have done. But starting off by calling out your brother, and planning to use My beloved Earth as your battleground, when you knew that it would bring death and suffering to countless numbers of My beloved mortal children, human and otherwise... I am so very disappointed in my eldest."

Michael swallowed hard and looked away.

"And as for you, Gabriel," God went on, "My appointed Messenger, you did nothing! Of all of you, you knew that I would not approve of what your brothers were doing, but did you try to speak to them, try to reason with them? Nooooo, you ran, and spent the ages amusing yourself under various mischievous guises. Yes, I know about your lady friends. You could've brought them home, you know, I'd have loved to meet My honest-to-Me grandchildren, and I do enjoy a good curry..."

"We would not have listened, Father," Lucifer made bold, stepping in front of the now quietly sobbing Gabriel, "It was not his fault, we would not have..."

"I DEMAND SILENCE!" God's voice rattled the Pearly Gates. Lucifer let out a small squeak, and subsided.

"Do not shrink from me, Raphael," God continued, "Although I can understand why you would hide your face. Your disdain for humanity and your casual cruelty to your vessels beggars belief. You, with the power of healing, set out to resume the Apocalypse. Such selfish viciousness. And as for your... conflict with your brother – your baby brother, who once looked up to you with such unquestioning love – words fail Me."

"He started it," Raphael muttered sullenly.

"He finished it!" God actually snapped, as Michael put a reassuring hand on Raphael's shoulder when his younger brother jumped in fright. "Not a day goes by when young Castiel isn't on his knees, admitting his mistakes, begging for My forgiveness, and My guidance, and renewing his pledge to watch over Heaven until such time as I wish to return! Which of you arrogant wretches have even thought to apologise to Me?"

"You weren't there!" Michael wailed in a most unarchangelic fashion, "You weren't there, and we didn't know what to do!"

"You knew exactly what I would have wanted," God corrected his wayward offspring abruptly. "But you did your own will, instead."

"Why did You leave us?" sobbed Gabriel, "Why did You leave us, Father?"

"I was hoping to retire," God told them, "Hand over the reins of the business to my four eldest, but how am I supposed to turn over control of the family firm if you can't even control yourselves? Holy guacamole, the Scooby gang could have done a better job. It's been worse than an episode of 'The Bold And The Beautiful'. It's been worse than an episode of 'Jackass'. Aaaargh! It's enough to do a Supreme Being's head in."

"Jackass?" Raphael whispered. "He compares us to male donkeys?"

"Maybe he wants us to be more like donkeys," Michael whispered back, "If they have desirable qualities, as Lucifer suggested."

"I told you that the donkeys should have inherited the Earth," muttered Lucifer. "He clearly loves them. I told you, they're smart."

"Smite me now," groaned Gabriel to himself with a wince.

God looked thoughtful. "I really do not know what to make of you all," he sighed. "Should I destroy you all, and start again? That's what you wanted for humankind, isn't it?" He pinched the bridge of His omniscenting nose in exasperation. "Of course I won't do that. I'm God, for My sake! But Me knows, you are all old enough, and allegedly wise enough, to know better. Humans, the 'mud-monkeys' you so despise, as ignorant as they may be, are better at settling their differences than you lot! For all their flaws and intolerances and baser instincts, somehow, they manage mostly to rise above that, and sort things out." He huffed irritably. "If they can do it, perhaps there is hope for you lot yet."

"What would You have us do, Father?" asked Michael in a small voice, as Lucifer put a worried warning hand on his brother's shoulder.

"For a start, I would have you learn to deal with each other as brothers," God stipulated, "And work together. After all," He grinned, "If you do want to take over the family business, as it were, you have to be able to work to a common goal rather than your own selfish wants."

"Will You teach us, Father?" Raphael peeked over Michael's shoulder.

"No," God shook His head, "I cannot. Clearly. Otherwise, you would already know how to do it. So much for omniscience and omnipotence, and all those other omni-words that clearly don't amount to jack shit."

"Now he speaks of the excrement of male donkeys!" marvelled Lucifer. "What does it mean?"

"Donkeys again?" noted Michael. "They must be important to Him. We should take more note of them, to divine His purpose for donkeys, and possibly equines in general."

"Equine dung is acknowledged as a powerful fertiliser," Raphael whispered eagerly. "Could this be some reference to stimulating growth? Nurturing spiritual development?"

"What He means, guys," sighed Gabriel, who had spent much more time among humans than any of them, "Is that He's going to try something else. Be afraid. Be very afraid."

"Indeed," agreed God. "I believe that I know of some humans who can teach you more about being brothers than you could possibly ever learn from Me. And therefore, I will send to you the mortal realm, to learn from two brothers who can teach you how to be brothers, and to know the importance of family, no matter how different you may feel you are in nature and in thought."

"What?" Michael's eyes bugged in horror, and he fell to his knees. "No, Father, please! Please don't send us to Earth! Please don't make us be... humans!"

"No, Father, I beg you!" Lucifer fell beside Michael, tears in his eyes, "Not humans! They're so... squishy."

"And yukky," added Raphael, "The excretory functions alone are just... disgusting!"

"I dunno," mused Gabriel, "It can be kind of cathartic... I'm just saying," he defended himself. "Earwax, though," he told God, "Not one of your better ideas, Father. Ditto for hangnails, prickly heat rash, hangovers, mosquito bites, ice-cream headaches, ingrown pubic hairs..."

"I don't want to be human!" cried Michael. "They break too easily!"

"Neither do I!" wailed Lucifer, clutching his brother. "They smell funny!"

"They leak!" sobbed Raphael. "Waaaaaaaah!"

"Oh, don't worry," God smiled, "I promise I will not turn you into humans."

"You promise?" snuffled Michael.

"I promise," God affirmed. "Come on, then, War, Famine, Pestilence and Death, I'm sure you'll find the experience extremely educational."

"Where are we going?" sniffled Lucifer, rising to his feet.

"We are going to see a brother of yours," God smiled, "Young Castiel. We will need his assistance with this... placement."

"What sort of assistance?" asked Gabriel, a horrible suspicion forming in his mind.

"The sort of assistance that will prevent these two brothers from murdering the lot of you on the spot," beamed God cheerfully. "Oh, and if you were theoretically to harbour any lingering resentment towards your baby brother who has tried his hardest to clean up after you, which I'm sure you don't, seeing as you are My Firstborn, My eldest and wisest, and therefore above any petty bullying or such unworthy sentiments, it would be wise to discard such theoretical feelings, lest you found yourself on the receiving end of a most deserved, righteous and thoroughly unpleasant smiting."

Raphael gulped. "Would we suffer smiting by Your Divine wrath, Father?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh, it would be much worse than that," God chuckled, "Dean Winchester will tear off your head and shit down your neck, and then he will really go mediaeval on your ass. Come along."

"I don't have an ass!" Raphael whispered in confusion to his brothers.

"Sure you do," Gabriel muttered, "It's where you keep your head."

"Do you have an ass, Lucifer? You like them. Should I get one?" Raphael suddenly sounded panicky. "When we get to Earth, should I procure a donkey? Is this Father's will?"

"If I recall correctly, His Son rode on one, didn't he?" remembered Lucifer. "Is this something to do with learning humility, perhaps?"

"I don't know," Michael replied, "But clearly, donkeys are pleasing to Him; it would behoove us to pay attention to donkeys while we are on Earth."

"If I have a donkey, I will look after it," Raphael said in a determined voice, "As Father would wish. I certainly will not be letting anybody use it in historical re-enactments, unless I am satisfied that its welfare is not endangered."

"That's something you have in common with Father, Lucifer," Michael smiled, "You both like donkeys."

"It's a good thing He likes them," Gabriel muttered to himself, "Or he'd have smited you lot already. Come on, baby bro awaits. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees Dad!"

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Reviews are the Bemused Looking Archangel Of Your Choice Sitting On The Pleasing Donkey Of Life! (You may hold your place in the Winchester queue by putting down a little pile of belongings.)


	4. Chapter 3

God is not going to turn his archangels into the Four Horsemen, he's just using them as pet names. He could just as well called them Larry, Curly, Moe, and Shep, or Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Zeppo. Or Leonardo, Donatello, Michaelangelo and Raphael. Or Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty. Or Al, Peg, Kelly and Bud. Or Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia would work. Maybe even James, Lars, Kirk and Jason. You get the idea. But they certainly don't.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

What is a Sheriff?

The answer to that is: it depends.

In a Western movie, the sheriff is usually the handsome good guy who brings an end to lawlessness in some dustbowl frontier town by intimidating and defeating the bad guys with his good looks, his perfectly-trained horse and apparent bullet-proofness, although he may, for plot development purposes, be permitted to sustain a manly bullet wound to some non-crippling part of the body, in order to provide the love interest, a prostitute who is played by a woman who looks far too healthy and unblemished to be a sex worker at a time when safe sex meant keeping your gun within reach at all times to tend to him in a brisk yet concerned fashion – he may appear shirtless and sweating, whilst she soothes his fevered brow tenderly, paving the way for the big kiss and happy ending or the big goodbye before he rides off into the sunset. (It would be more historically accurate if he was to die slowly of untreatable systemic infection while her emaciated face rotted off due to tertiary syphilis, but for some reason this never happens.)

Alternatively, the sheriff may sometimes be the bad guy. This is made immediately clear by his black hat, his scraggly beard, his weathered face (extra points for pockmarked complexion) and his trigger-happiness in the presence of struggling farmers, struggling miners, native Americans of any ilk and chandeliers that annoy him. He will have a predilection for setting fire to things. In addition, he will never, ever ride a pinto. You just don't if you're an evil sheriff. It would be like Vincent and Jules driving around in a Smart car, like the Terminator going after Sarah Connor on a moped, like Darth Vader setting out to shoot down Rebels on a flying bicycle with a small wrinkly sidekick yelling 'Phone home! Phone home!'. He will invariably get his comeuppance by the end of the movie, when he gets shot he stays shot, and he never, ever gets the prostitute-with-a-heart-of-gold.

In Robin Hood films, the sheriff is a bad guy, but he is usually be played by someone who is devilishly handsome, in which case you have to look to his beard and his tights. They will be black, as will his horse. In extreme circumstances, there may be actual moustache-twirling, in which case you are allowed to swear in disgust and hurl vitriol and even cushions at the television.

Historically, a sheriff was a royal official charged with keeping the King's (and it was a king, the boys club strikes again, complete with ludicrous outfit and funny hat) Peace, and carrying out a number of legal, political and organisational duties. It was his job to settle arguments, make the decisions he thought the king would, and generally keep the place more or less running and avoid absolute chaos in the absence of the reigning monarch. So, when Dean Winchester described Castiel as being 'Sheriff of Heaven', he was historically more accurate than he realised.

The thing about any official office, in this day and age, is that it entails paperwork of some sort. It's just a constant of the universe: where there is administration, there is administrivia. It is entirely possible that, on the far side of the cosmos, where the light from the swirling galaxies hasn't even reached the Milky Way yet, small green beings who breathe hydrogen get up in the morning, kiss their brood-mate and podlings goodbye, hop into the hovertrain and commute to Duty, where they sit at their dutyspaces and gaze forlornly at the pile of etched carbon crystals in the 'In' tray, and sigh "Oh, Great Chemist, it never ends, does it?"

Castiel was an angel, so he didn't actually 'sit' at a 'desk' and shuffle 'pieces of paper' whilst 'making notes' on 'parchment', but he was in Heaven, which is, as we have mentioned, all about perception. So, if we were to translate the situation into a manageable analogy for the benefit of limited human perception and understanding...

Castiel sat at a desk and shuffled pieces of paper whilst making notes on parchment.

He had set up a working place for himself in a small chamber not far from his Father's throne room. He would never dream of using the throne room, although he did like to stop there sometimes and listen to the choirs. He often left the door of his office open so he could hear them rehearsing.

He gazed at the reports before him, and suppressed a sigh. It was part of the job, he told himself sternly, and if he found aspects of it... trying, then he should embrace them gratefully as opportunities to pursue virtue. Diligence, Patience, and Humility, he could do them all at once, which was also efficient, and he thought that perhaps his Father might have found that pleasing. After a moment, he waved his hand and brought forth a cup of coffee, a habit he'd picked up during his travels and travails with the Winchesters. He examined the mug – it was cheerful yellow, and had 'It's not really CASUAL FRIDAY If I Still Have To Wear Pants' printed on it – and sipped at his drink, returning his attention to the paperwork before him.

There was a progress report from the Cupids (scanned and initialled, ready to be filed in the Heavenly Archives). There was an Incident Report describing a mishap in which one of the fledglings had clipped a wing on the Pearly Gates, necessitating a trip to the healers (countersigned). There was a request for a hardware upgrade from St Peter, who claimed that the system needed a secondary remote back-up, because even with the tape drives if the primary server went down they could lose troobs**[1]** of data in one go (approved, because St Peter was not the type to indulge in scaremongering; Castiel made a mental note to ask Sam about what all that meant next time he saw him).

There was a rather formal letter from Crowley, asking politely whether Heaven would be so kind as to take in a number of deceased televangelists who had somehow been sent to Hell, not that he was accusing anyone of making mistakes, it was probably just a hiccup in the system, that happened to everyone from time to time, and if Castiel could just see his way clear to moving these souls to their more appropriate eternal home, he'd be terribly grateful, the weather here continues hot, hope you are well, et cetera. (Castiel found himself smiling; the fact that Crowley had penned such a polite request indicated just how much those souls were annoying him. He set the letter aside, vowing not to take too much delight in penning an equally polite letter firmly saying 'No, we sent them to you for a reason'.)

There was a rather chatty note from Valhalla; Thor's hammer had gone missing, and someone had spotted a large dog trotting around with it. The dog had been hanging around with the hounds of Valhalla, and Thor was pretty sure he recognised the animal as being one of the Guardian of Companions' charges, could somebody just have a quick look and see if it was there? Castiel sighed, and wrote a quick memo to Denariel, the Guardian of Companions who looked after the souls of pets until their humans came to fetch them, and asked her to see if the Winchesters' dog Jimi Senior the Hellhound had been visiting again. He cc-ed it to Francis of Assisi, who often helped the Guardian, and was particularly adept at handling Jimi's cheerful boisterousness. He didn't anticipate any diplomatic difficulty; Thor was a dog person, and would laugh it off as funny. Not like Athena, didn't she just throw a fit when Jimi stole her spear (St Peter was not impressed, either, when the dog dug a hole in the Firmament in order to bury it), and she was not the least bit amused when the dog chased her owl and actually nabbed a couple of tail feathers...

The last item was one of the sort he dreaded most: it was one of his own reports, sent back to him by Danael of Reception. It was covered in markings, queries and corrections made with the Red Pen Of Fury by Heaven's senior librarian, secretary and archivist. Her careful, serifed handwriting stood out starkly against the parchment. He ran his eyes over the document; he thought that a lot of the things she'd marked could stand as they were, but he was not going to get into an argument with Danael. A lot of angels complained about having to get reports up to her exacting standards for the Heavenly Archives, so he felt obliged to set a good example in promptness, willingness and neat handwriting.

"Danael is a hard taskmaster, isn't she?" said a voice from behind him as he pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began his corrections.

"She holds us to high standards, and herself to the highest of all," he replied, a little annoyed that one of his brothers had come to complain about her while he was trying to work. "She asks nothing of us that she does not ask of herself."

"Do you think she really uses demon blood in her pen?" the voice persisted.

"No," Castiel replied, "That is a most unkind rumour started by some of the cherubs. Besides which, blood would be most unsuitable as an ink, unless some sort of anticoagulant was added. It would decompose over time, too, making it completely inappropriate for archival material."

"I suppose so," his visitor agreed, "Although if anyone did, I can believe it would be her. Bites their heads off first, too, I'll bet..."

"Danael is a devout and diligent servant of our Father," Castiel snapped, "Who carries out her duties to the best of her abilities. It cannot be an easy task. If you find her standards and demeanour... exasperating, think of it as an opportunity to practise Charity by refraining from disparaging her."

"You think that would be pleasing to your Father?" the voice asked, sounding amused.

"Please leave, brother," Castiel said as politely as he could, "I am busy, but will be happy to meet with you when I am done here. And yes," he added, "I think it would disappoint Him to see us have such... mean thoughts." He paused. "Don't be such an assbutt," he finished.

"Certainly," the voice laughed, "I shall take pains to avoid all manifestations of... assbuttery. And I hope that will please you, My child, as much as you please Me."

Castiel dropped his pen, and turned slowly, not daring to believe what his senses were telling him.

"F... Father?" he stammered, eyes wide in shock and disbelief.

"Hey, bro!" grinned Gabriel, who stood with the other archangels at God's side, "Look who's back! Er, Him, obviously," he added quickly, "Not me. I mean, me as well, but, you know what I mean."

"He has come back to us, Castiel," Michael said, gazing fondly at his baby brother, "Father is back."

"Hello, Castiel," God smiled warmly, "You were barely a fledgling when I saw you last. You were barely a nestling, even – haven't you grown! You have done so well, and I am so proud of you, My child. So, do you have a hug for your old..."

The Almighty didn't get to finish that sentence before Castiel was upon Him.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"...And so, I think the Winchesters would be a perfect example to the Four Horsemen here," God finished explaining his return to Castiel. "It is My intention to send your big brothers," and he jerked a divine thumb in the direction of the archangels, "To Earth, to learn how to live as brothers, and be family to each other, and to get along. And I think that you would be the perfect liaison for this little outing."

Castiel considered that. "I do not question Your will, Father," he said carefully, "But I have certain... reservations about such a course of action."

"Oh?" asked God, raising an Almighty eyebrow, with an almost-smile that made Castiel suspect that He knew what his young angel was going to say next.

"Well," Castiel went on, "The Winchesters are not... inclined to be well-disposed towards my oldest brothers," he said tactfully.

"Hmmmm, I wonder why that could be?" mused God. "Could it be because you tried to manipulate, intimidate and bully them into being vessels for a little bit of brotherly Apocalypse? Could it be because you killed those dear to them? Could it be because you tried to kill them? Or could it be because you actually did kill them? More than once, even? What do you think?" He looked expectantly at the archangels, who clustered together again.

"Um," went Lucifer.

"That is why I need you to be the co-ordinator of this exercise," God told Castiel, "Because the Winchesters will be willing to listen to you, and assist you."

"Also," Castiel began again, "I believe that my brothers may not be... particularly well-disposed towards me." He swallowed. "I defied Michael, and I burned him with holy oil. I tried to kill Raphael – and succeeded. I tried to thwart Lucifer, and Gabriel..." He glared at Gabriel. "Gabriel was... an assbutt." He looked resignedly at his Father. "I suspect that some, if not all, of them would like to smite me."

Michael stared at Castiel. "But what?" he asked curiously.

Raphael gave Gabriel an appraising look. "Clearly young Castiel is fond of you, to make such a comparison," he observed, "I am having difficulty in finding the desirable qualities of the noble donkey in you."

"Hee-haw," grumbled Gabriel.

"But what?" Michael repeated, "Gabriel was a donkey, but what?"

"Castiel, they are your big brothers," God assured him, "And none of them will smite you. Will you?"

The archangels looked truly angelic and shook their heads, just like small children who have been told 'Daddy just has to run down to the store, I'll only be half an hour or so, while I'm gone, you won't eat any of the cupcakes on the table or the chocolate on the bottom shelf of the pantry or the candy in the dish on the bench or the packets of potato chips on the sofa, will you?'.

"But... I'm a terrible angel!" Castiel burst out. "I did terrible things, Father! I was full of pride, and arrogance, and sin, and did things that would make You ashamed!"

"Well, you'll be right at home with your big brothers, won't you?" God replied brightly. "Don't worry, I shall hold the fort here while you are away." The Almighty perused the parchments on the desk. "I can do this for you. Although I have to say, split infinitives are not the unmitigated errors they were once considered; language is an evolving thing, otherwise they'd all still be speaking Grunt. And this one," he waved the letter from Crowley, "This one, I shall answer personally, because just imagining the look on the little twerp's face will amuse Me enormously..."

"Oh, Father, do that, he'll wet himself!" Lucifer giggled gleefully, before schooling his face back to a suitably dour expression. "I mean, it will be good to let him know that You have returned," he finished, nodding sagely.

"Very well, I shall mind the store, while you lot accompany your brother Castiel to Earth, and spend some time with the Winchesters," God seemed satisfied with the idea.

"You're really not going to turn us into humans for this?" pleaded Lucifer.

"No, I promised you that I would not," God assured them all.

"What shall we do, Father?" Raphael asked.

"You'll do whatever the Winchesters do," God waved a heavenly hand vaguely, "Roam around, fighting evil, destroying those things that would destroy My works."

"This may not be so bad, brothers," Michael whispered to them, "We are archangels. Righteous smiting of evil things is what we were born to do!"

"I have to admit," Lucifer nodded, "It's been a long time since I had a really good smite."

"Smiting is good," Raphael agreed, his eyes sliding to Castiel, "I think I would derive gratification from some smiting."

"Why do I get the feeling," Gabriel muttered, "That this is going to end in tears?"

"So, all ready?" God beamed at them. "Go with My blessing, My children, and know that I have faith in all of you."

He sent them on their way with a flick of His infinite grace, then turned back to the desk. Grinning, he took a piece of parchment, and dictated to the pen that moved across it.

_**Dear Mr Crowley**_

_**We have not met before – I am filling in for Castiel whilst he is busy about Heaven's business. Please allow Me to introduce Myself. I have many names, but you may feel most comfortable calling Me OHSHITOHSHITOHSHITI'MGOINGTODIE...**_

* * *

**[1] **troobs is short for troodlebytes, a large unit of data storage used in Heaven. One troodlebyte is equal to oodles and oodles of terabytes.

Winchesters next chapter, I promise. But perhaps you could assist me with getting their first scene started. Leave me a luvverly review, and please choose one from each of the possible two items:

1) Sam OR Dean?

2) Toffee OR chocolate?

3) marshmallows OR sprinkles?

4) A: 'Time to let go, bro, I know you're strong enough to do this', OR B: 'I think we can save ***, but *** will be... damaged. Do you want that?' (I get to pick what '***' is...)

I shall collate results, and see what happens.

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Amusing Notices amongst the Useless Documents on the Desk Of Life!


	5. Chapter 4

Thank you, Denizens et al., for your reviewing and your voting, you give me and the bunny a happy (a very platonic one that doesn't involve the removal of clothing). I should've outsourced this writing gig to you lot ages ago... there will be both marshmallows and sprinkles, because the vote was very close on that one.

Winchesters are imminent. Please keep the queue orderly. Oh, and don't let them see those things you're carrying, they spook easily.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

What is personal space?

The answer to that is: it depends.

It is generally recognised as the area around a person or animal that the individual recognises as 'theirs', such that they will feel discomfort, annoyance or anger when that space is impinged upon by another individual. The size of a bubble of personal space depends on who is doing the encroaching: the more familiar an encroacher is, the closer the encroachee will be psychologically comfortable to have them. Even then, an acceptable distance of approach is still highly variable: what may represent 'Hello, it's nice to meet you' for one individual may be well within the 'Get the hell out of my personal space before I punch/kick/bite/scratch/peck/crap on you' radius for another.

Cultural differences also contribute to the variability: in some parts of the Middle East, leaving what a Westerner would consider a 'respectful and polite distance' would be considered disrespectful, even bordering on rude. Many tribes of New Guinea show respect and attention to a speaker by holding his hand while they listen. Other cultures of the East regard it as normal and comfortable for friends of the same sex to walk along arm in arm, or holding hands. You can see where misunderstandings could arise, as occurred once after Castiel described some particularly interesting mediaeval Islamic architecture he'd seen in Pakistan, and after Sam quizzed him eagerly on it, he took the Winchesters on an afternoon excursion. While Sam marvelled at the graceful arches, delicate interfacings, soaring minarets and majestic domes, sampled the local cuisine (and discovered a fondness for the spiced potato and onion dish aaloo bhaji) and, with the prompting of some encouraging food stall proprietors, tried a few stumbling phrases in Urdu, Dean looked around bug-eyed, clutched at the sleeve of Castiel's trench coat and told the angel "Your GPS isn't working, Cas, you might've been aiming for Pakistan, but you've crash-landed us on the Planet of the Pansies!".

Angels, being mostly unaccustomed to having corporeal forms, have little or no understanding of the concept of personal space. Even the occasional angel who has spent time amongst humans can find the idea difficult, if not impossible to grasp. It's not really their fault; it's just so completely outside of their experience, their core being, they can't comprehend it. It's like asking a fish to understand football, or asking a worm to understand bicycles, or asking Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan to understand that the law applies to whining airheads too.

It is not surprising, therefore, that Castiel had difficulty with the idea. However, he had quiet hope that one day he would master it, because he had Dean Winchester to teach him, and Dean Winchester was an expert on the topic of personal space. Dean Winchester was _the _expert on the topic of personal space. If anyone could teach him about the concept, it was Dean. Dean could teach a limpet about a rock's personal space.

Dean was very protective of his personal space. The number of people regularly permitted into it was very limited. His brother Sam was one person who could move casually through Dean's personal space, which was fortunate, seeing as their way of life made it a necessity. Whether it was sharing a crappy cramped room with terrible décor, or spending nights in the car, patching each other up after a Hunt went south, or, on one occasion they hoped never to repeat again, hiding from a horde of the female fans of Carver Edlund's Supernatural' books in a broom cupboard wearing nothing but their shorts and their socks. The other person was Bobby, seeing as he was their practically-father, and his place was the closest thing they had to a home base, where they could hole up, or catch some much-needed down time, and generally be confident that no matter when or how they turned up, he wouldn't turn a hair.

So when the Impala rolled up and Sam carefully extracted Dean from the back seat, and Dean was obviously caked in some hideous eldrich excrescence, Bobby hurried out to help, rapidly compiling a list of fuglies that could've covered one of his boys with disgusting unnatural gunk.

"What have you been tanglin' with, ya idjits?" he demanded. "What is it? Ectoplasm from a really pissed ghost? Black Dog guts? Putrefying remains of the victims of a skinwalker? You fell into the immature egg case of a Grimblebug? Saliva of a Hookah demon? Intestinal extrusion from a feeding Wilkywilky? Oh, no, please tell me you didn't get caught in the open by a female Doingo in heat..."

"It was a Supergooper," Sam told him, as Dean tried to wipe the stuff out of his eyes.

Bobby looked confused. "Never heard of them," he mused.

"That's because it's not a monster, it's a candy bar," Sam added tersely, "And Dean is an idiot."

"It wasn't my fault," Dean muttered sullenly, wiggling a finger in one ear. "Sam, I think I've still got marshmallow in this ear..."

Bobby peered harder at the thick, sticky stuff coating Dean. "Is that..." he carefully extended a hand and cautiously poked at the muck, "Dean, is that... chocolate?" He blinked. "With sprinkles?"

"Willy Wonka didn't take kindly to us trying to burn his hat," Dean muttered, wrinkling his nose. "I think I still have marshmallow up my left nostril..."

"Angry spirit haunting a confectionery factory," Sam told Bobby by way of explanation. "This guy invented a new candy bar, the Supergooper."

"Lavishly layered super-smooth cocoa concoctions and melting marshmallow moments smothered with super special sprinkles," Dean added helpfully, tilting his head back, "Sam, check up my nose."

"So, a jealous business partner offed this guy after hours, and his angry ghost killed several workers before we got there," Sam pulled a face as Dean proffered his stoppered shnozz.

"Uh-huh," nodded Bobby, "So, what happened to Augustus Gloop, here?"

"The asshole pushed me onto the production line!" asserted the chocolate-coated Dean. "I was trying to grab his hat, that's what was anchoring him there..."

"You could have let it go and we could have fished it out at the end," Sam told him, with a quick shot of Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child). "And don't try to blame the ghost – you jumped onto that production line belt like a kid taking a flying leap at a water slippy slide!"

"No I didn't!" Dean denied, sprinkles pattering gently from him to make a small colourful patch on the ground beneath him, "I was totally trying to get off it!"

"Really?" asked Sam tartly. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you rolled over on your back, and every time you went under a chocolate coating mechanism, you opened your mouth, and came out the other side of the chocolate fall groaning orgasmically..."

"I was trying to get my breath back," Dean insisted, "And testing the cocoa concoctions. To make sure the angry ghost hadn't poisoned them. The lives of thousands of candy lovers could have depended on me, Sam!"

"So, what happened then?" asked Bobby, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"What does it look like?" Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean got lavishly layered with super-smooth cocoa concoctions."

"It would have worked," Dean muttered, "I nearly had his hat, but then I was attacked by the marshmallow injector. Are you sure you can't see anything up my nose?"

"You were just lucky that it got you where you were," Sam shuddered. "If you'd been three feet further along the belt when that injector activated, you'd be walking even more bow-legged than usual, and we'd be sitting in an ER somewhere waiting for a proctology consult that would have the most experienced specialist asking discreet questions about your sex life." He looked thoughtful. "Well, I'd be sitting, you'd be standing with a slightly shell-shocked look on your face..."

"But I grabbed his hat!" Dean smiled triumphantly, "I evaded indecent assault by marshmallow, and grabbed his hat!"

"Yeah, you did," Sam agreed, "If only you could have gotten off the belt before you were tipped into the sprinkle coating drum..."

"Well, you better take the candyman here inside and get him cleaned up," Bobby sighed.

"Or, you could just get some hot women to come and lick me clean," grinned Dean. "Get some who like marshmallows, to clean out my ears..."

"If you don't shut up, I'll take you to the nearest Jenny Craig office," threatened Sam with a dose of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "Where I will throw you to the large calorie-starved women."

"That's cool," Dean positively leered, "Larger ladies can be hot, you know – there's more of 'em to love, and you don't have to worry about breaking 'em..."

"As fascinatin' as this insight into what passes for Dean's mind is," interrupted Bobby, "Might I suggest that you clean that stuff off before the dogs get a whiff of you, or you may be in for an ear-washing you'll never forget." He looked thoughtful. "I could hose 'im down here before he comes in," he offered.

"It won't work," sighed Sam, "We tried. It's a secret recipe formulation that's as thick and sticky as velcro-infused treacle. Cold water will just make the chocolate set harder. He needs to have a bath."

There was a sudden yelp behind them, and Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler shot past them and disappeared through the door.

"Great, you said the b-word out loud," humphed Dean. "He'll be whining under my bed all night now." He wiggled. "Sam, I think I have sprinkles in my pants."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ten minutes later, it was actually Dean who was doing the whining.

"Why do I have to have a bath?" he protested, sitting in the tub of hot water.

"Because this stuff is like edible tar," Sam replied brusquely, reaching for the shampoo again. "You'll have to soak it off."

"Don't get it in my eyes!" Dean yelped, "Owwwww! I thought that stuff was supposed to be no-tears!"

"That's only for real kids," Sam replied abruptly, "Apparently, it doesn't work on six-foot-one three year olds. Here, time to rinse."

"I hate this," snivelled Dean, holding his nose as Sam filled the bucket, and upended it over him. "And I hate you. And I definitely have sprinkles in my pants. How the hell did that happen?""

"Well, next time maybe you'll think twice about getting yourself chocolate coated," Sam answered tartly, lathering Dean's hair again. "Because strangely enough, I'm not enjoying this either."

The sticky confection took a lot of soaking, scrubbing, shampooing and several water changes before Dean started to come clean. It was then that they identified a problem.

"It's stuck," Dean noted, tugging unsuccessfully at his outer shirt, "That stuff went down my shirt, and it's stuck to me." He examined a hand. "And I'm getting third degree prune-up."

"Well, we can amputate your shirt," Sam reasoned pulling out his knife and nicking the worn plaid, tearing it away from his brother in strips. "You need new ones anyway."

"Aaaaah! Ooooooh! AaaaAAAAaaaaargh!" yodelled Dean, "Arm hairs! Arm hairs!"

"Let's hope you didn't get any of this crap down your jeans," Sam said grimly, "Because if you have to give yourself a manzilian to get your pants off, you are on your own."

"I don't think I did," Dean wiggled again, "Just those damned sprinkles, getting into places sprinkles have no business being, although I suppose that in the right circumstances if you found a hot chick who wanted to play Happy Pink Ice Cream Cone you might WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Dean sat up out of the water like a particularly buoyant and anxious turd bobbing to the surface of a cesspool.

"Cutting your shirt off," replied Sam, his knife hovering at the hem of Dean's tee. "This thing is stuck, bro."

"You cannot cut this shirt off me, Sam!" Dean practically shrieked, "This is an authentic Motorhead tour shirt! I had to sneak into a gig to get this! I had to talk around a female security guard who was not a hot chick! This shirt has meaning, Sam, this shirt has memories! Lemmy Kilmister sprayed beer on this shirt!"

"Dean, that shirt is more than ten years old!" Sam said, exasperated. "It's faded, it's worn, it's stretched out of shape..."

"It's well-loved! It's comfortable!" countered Dean, "Don't you dare amputate this shirt, Sam!"

"All right, all right," Sam humphed, "I think we can save it, but it will be... damaged. Do you want that?"

"I don't care," griped Dean sullenly, "I want to keep my shirt."

"Well, you're going to have to do some more soaking to get it loose," Sam decided. "So lie there in the water until that crap has softened up some more."

"Knife-happy lunatic," Dean grumbled, slouching down to lie in the murky water. "Top me up, I don't want to get cold."

"Call me when you've peeled yourself," Sam said, getting up to leave, "Or if you see reason and decide to let go of that dustcloth you're wearing."

Dean lifted a hand out of the water, and flipped him off.

It wasn't so bad, he decided, bobbing gently in the water, there were worse ways to recover after a Hunt. Job was done, neither of them had actually gotten hurt, and they'd escaped with all their clothes on. It was, in a way, kind of soothing, just resting with the warm water lapping at his ears, a change to just lie there, and enjoy his own personal space for a little while.

Of course, he should've known that the moment he thought that, it would be invaded.

He had just lifted a finger to his nose and was performing a routine marshmallowectomy when he heard a flap of wings, a splash, and then Castiel was standing in the other end of the bath with chocolatey water halfway up his shins.

"Hello, Dean," he said.

"Gaaaaah!" Dean breached like a killer whale rising from the depths. "Cas! How many times do I have to say it? Personal! Space!"

"My apologies," the angel said, carefully stepping out of the bath. "I did not mean to interrupt your ablutions."

"Well, consider me interrupted," Dean grumped, slumping back into the water.

Castiel cocked his head, and examined Dean. "You are coated in chocolate," he observed. "If I have interrupted you whilst you are in the middle of entertaining a young woman for the purposes of casual fornication, I will come back later..."

"It's okay, Cas," sighed Dean, "Just the aftermath of a Hunt. What's up?"

"My Father has returned," Castiel actually smiled, "And He has a request of you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They arrived on the porch of a run-down house.

"Know that I am doing this under sufferance," growled Lucifer.

"Know that I am doing this because Father wills it," snapped Michael.

"I remember why I hate this place already," whined Raphael.

"Get used to it, guys," sighed Gabriel. "And you'd better learn to see the funny side, because if there's one thing we know about Dad, it's that he likes a giggle as much as anyone else."

The sound of their argument on the porch drew the attention of the house's owner, because the front door opened.

"Whatever you're sellin', vacuum cleaners, phone plans or eternal salvation, I aint interes..." Bobby began, his voice trailing off.

Three pissed off faces glared at him, along with one resigned one.

"Oh, balls."

* * *

Reviews are the Chocolate-Coated Marshmallow-Stuffed Sprinke-Sprinkled Winchester Of Your Choice on the Processing Line Of Life!

Or if you like, you may imagine the Winchester Of Your Choice doing this...

http**COLONSLASHSLASH **www**DOT** youtube**DOT** com/watch?v=qK0VbVrrqjk

How you get the chocolate off afterwards is up to you.


	6. Chapter 5

Have I told you lot lately how much of a little bright spot you and your encouragement and reviews are when Real Life is being a complete #*$^? Well, you are. Ta lots.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

What is teamwork?

The answer to that is: it depends.

Historically, teamwork was two or more people acting in concert to achieve a common goal. In many contexts or situations, from hunting mammoth to building railways, individuals, possibly with complementary skills, worked together to complete a job that a single person could not do alone. All members of the team knew what needed to be done, and so they combined their efforts to do it.

That, of course, was a very crude and superficial understanding of teamwork. In this day and age, of course, we have a much more sophisticated and professional understanding of the concept. We understand that it is not simply enough to bring together people with the right abilities and explain to them, maybe over a bit of roast mammoth or some coffee and jerky, what they need to do.

In this enlightened age of Best Practice Management, it is known that before there can be a team, there must be team-building.

This is a ritual requiring the assistance of well-dressed, highly-paid consultants with laser pointers, disturbingly white teeth, relentlessly cheerful disposition, lots of acronyms and, if the participants were particularly naughty in previous lives, there may be a process-driven heuralistic program leveraging corporate knowledge off a level playing field going forward. It can involve trapping the individuals required in a room with each other and forcing them to brainstorm trite platitudes about sharing and respect, then PowerPointing them into submission. At worst, it can involve ludicrous outdoor activities that Girl Scouts would turn their knot-tying noses up at, listening to country music to find messages about a harmonious workplace and the odd chorus of 'Kumbaya', all in the name of some nebulous cause called 'bonding'.

What bonding actually means is never really explained at these occasions – well, not in language that anybody can understand, anyway, since the highly-paid consultants usually speak an artificial language called Management Jargonese that is understood by fewer people than Klingon. The people who hire these consultants probably think that 'bonding' means 'get to know a bit more about the people you work with and learn to like them and enjoy working with them and look forward to coming in to work every day', but in practice, what it usually ends up meaning is that people go away from the experience still liking the workmates they liked, still disliking anybody they disliked, and possibly disliking some people they thought they liked on account of the unfortunate incident during the Trust Exercise or microphone-hogging during the compulsory karaoke after dinner.

The one constant seems to be that they all end up even more cynical about management, who may show up to give a pep talk at the beginning of the whole farrago, but always manage to use the excuse of work commitments to avoid having to suffer through the campfire songs or fingerpainting sessions themselves.

The people who hire these consultants have got it all wrong. If you want to see real teamwork in action, watch a group of animals working to a common cause, whether it be to bring down game to feed the pack, or drive away rivals who threaten the well-being of the clan. You don't see lionesses sitting down to write Mission and Vision statements before leaving to make a kill (although if they did, it would probably be a refreshingly simple exercise: 'Our Mission is to make a kill to feed ourselves and our cubs, and maybe the idle layabouts who impregnate us every year or so. Our Vision is that we will do it successfully without anyone getting hurt'). You don't see chimps brainstorming the best way to prevent the troop from the next valley across from attacking them and killing the males and their offspring and chimpnapping the females (once more, it wouldn't take up too much butcher's paper to make their list: 'If we are attacked, fight back, protect the females and the young, and chase the enemy back to their own territory').

It's amazing, really, how animals that have never seen a single PowerPoint presentation, let alone been compelled to build rafts that sink half-way across a muddy pond, manage to achieve ruthlessly efficient and effective co-operation. No, apparently a combination of instinct, teaching and experience are enough to show animals that co-operation is the best way to procure the best result for the group.

This might be a good time to point out that God did not invent PowerPoint, Jargonese or teepee building.

So when he told His wayward archangels that he wanted them to learn to work together as a team, and he promised them not to turn them into humans, He had a particular strategy in mind that would make the average high-powered executive weep with envy.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"I don't believe it," Dean said faintly, as Castiel explained the plan that God had outlined to him. "I don't believe it, just when I think that aspects of this life suck harder than Paris Hilton, this comes along."

"My Father believes that you are the ones to teach them the meaning of being brothers, of being family," Castiel smiled, radiating faith in his Father, in Dean, and in the idea that everything would turn out all right.

"Um, Cas, your, er, that is, you know, Him," Sam stumbled, "Er, He does know that your big brothers don't really... like us much, doesn't He?"

They are being sent here to learn," Castiel assured them firmly, "Not to further indulge in the sort of petty behaviour that has caused Him such disappointment to begin with."

"And what, He's muzzled them or something?" asked Sam.

"He has extracted from them a promise that they will do nothing of that sort," Castiel nodded trustingly.

"Oh," humphed Sam in reply, "Well, if they've promised, that's all right then, because we all know that angels are honourable beings who never lie or break promises or act like douchebags, nope, they're like Girl Scouts with wings but no cookies, so we're perfectly safe." He looked thoughtful. "I don't suppose there's any point in me making a will if I don't really have anything worth passing on. And the only people I would pass stuff on to are Dean and Bobby, and they're just as screwed as me. I wonder if Goodwill would have any use for a few pieces of singed clothing when the smoke clears?"

"Maybe it won't be so bad," Dean sighed, "Maybe one of them will just smite me in my sleep, and I'll never know what hit me." His face hardened. "Oh, just so you know," he mentioned casually, "If that asshole Michael is wearing Adam, I am going to jam his own angel sword right up his sanctimonious, arrogant ass and wiggle it around until his grace is like cottage cheese."

"He will most definitely not be using your half-brother as a vessel," Castiel stated, "In fact, Father was quite specific; he told me that they would be..."

"Holy shit," breathed Sam, as Bobby re-entered the room.

"Well, you got one word of what they are right," Dean griped before looking up again, "And I have my doubts as to how holy those assholes actually are."

"No, seriously, holy shit," repeated Sam, his eyes wide.

"They were waiting on the porch," Bobby informed them vaguely, as the four archangels followed him into the living room, and stood, glaring at the Winchesters.

The Winchesters stared back.

"This is outrageous!" barked Michael.

"This is preposterous!" yapped Lucifer.

"This is horrible!" whimpered Raphael.

"Wake me when it's over," yawned Gabriel.

"Oh, fuck me," groaned Dean.

Gabriel sat down, and scratched at one ear with a hind paw. "If Dad's sent me down here with fleas, I'm gonna put a whoopee cushion on His throne," he humphed. "Either that, or I'll cock my leg against it."

"Father did promise them," Castiel reminded everyone, "That he would not send them back as humans."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Certain breeds of dog are associated with certain traits and characteristics, although there are always exceptions – there are Setters who are gun shy, and the occasional Poodle who's afraid of water. Serious breeders try to preserve and propagate those breed-specific tendencies, and weed out those that are deemed not desirable, so that people seeking out that breed can be reasonably sure of the type of temperament they are likely to get in their new companion.

Because of this, if some offshoot of the Christian faith was looking to represent the archangels as dogs, it would not be difficult to select a breed with appropriate traits associated with them.

For example, Michael might easily be a German Shepherd, a Rottweiler, or a Malinois, breeds known for their fierce loyalty, willingness to work and desire to please their authority figure.

Lucifer might be an Airedale, a Mastiff or a Cattle Dog, intelligent and capable of great affection, but with an independent streak that, handled the wrong way, can lead to a complete disregard of and contempt for authority.

Raphael would make a wonderful Doberman, Great Dane or Karakachan, breeds that are loyal to their individual handler or pack, but have a tendency to aloofness.

Gabriel would probably be a Border Collie, Irish Setter or Boxer, playful breeds that are happiest in a loving pack and with plenty to keep them occupied, with a tendency to get into cheerful mischief (if not destructive havoc) if they become bored (which can happen easily, because they're smarter than their big silly grins let on).

Yep, if a new Christian sect wanted to put up a stained glass window of God bringing forth his four furry four-legged archcompanions, they'd have no trouble choosing breeds.

However, God had a much better sense of humour than a lot of those who claimed to worship Him. (Odin once described him to Zeus and Ra as 'The funniest deity in the cosmos – I mean, look at the platypus. Look at the star-nosed mole. Look at the tapir. Look at all those plants that grow in shapes that look like genitalia! The guy's a hoot!', and they both agreed. 'I'm quite fond of the phallic cacti,' Ra noted, 'They crack me up every time I see one.' 'Dicks with pricks,' nodded Zeus, grinning, 'I just wish I'd thought of it.'). Although nobody in Bobby's living room at that exact moment was truly seeing the funny side.

"So, let me make sure I got this straight," Bobby said, scratching his head, "Michael, you're the Pug, Raphael, you're the French Bulldog, Gabriel is the Jack Russell, and, er, Lucifer, the, er, Prince of Darkness and Beast of the Pit..."

"Is the Chihuahua," finished Sam, still staring.

"Makes sense, I guess," Bobby shrugged, "Chihuahuas are part demon."

"They would've been a great diabolical weapon," said Lucifer.

The humans blinked; what came out of his little doggy mouth was a series of doggy gruffs, whuffs, and snuffles, but they distinctly heard what he was saying inside their heads.

"At least Himself has made arrangements for us to understand them," Bobby sighed.

"You say that like it's a good thing," griped Dean, glaring sourly at the four small dogs. "I mean, what are we supposed to do with them? Besides wash the windows, I mean..."

"Mind your tongue, disobedient son of Adam!" snapped Michael, "We would not be here if you had just fulfilled your role." He focused his grace, and...

Let out a comically large sneeze.

"What the hell was that?" asked Dean.

"Michael attempted to smite you," Castiel frowned disapprovingly.

"Well, not exactly 'smite'," commented Gabriel, "More of an angelic slap upside the head. A smitelet."

"You wouldn't be here if you hadn't been so gung-ho for dancing the Apocalypso," Dean told the sniffling Pug.

"You see, this is exactly the sort of thing that Dad wants us to get past," Gabriel whuffed, looking resigned.

"He wants you to learn to be a family, and work as a team, a pack," confirmed Castiel.

"And in order to do this, we must be dogs?" whined Raphael.

"Well you sure as hell weren't capable of learnin' to do it as multi-dimensional waveforms of celestial intent," Bobby observed trenchantly, "And wearin' your human prom dresses didn't improve your grades either."

"No, seriously, what are we supposed to do with them?" Dean repeated. "I mean, they're four bad-tempered yappy little dogs. How the hell are we supposed to teach them to get along?"

"Take them with you on a Hunt," replied Castiel, "And show them teamwork in action. Show them brothers caring for each others' welfare."

Dean shook his head sadly. "Oh, Cas," he murmured, "The stress has finally gotten to you. I'm sorry, dude, I should've seen this coming..."

"It is what our Father suggested," Castiel reminded him.

"Great, just great," griped Dean, "So, all we have to do is find a job where there's some window-haunting spirit that needs to be washed away, then I can get one of these guys, and jam a broom handle up his ass, and start washing..."

"You Hunt with a dog, do you not?" enquired Michael stiffly.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "But Jimi is a proper dog. Not a rat with a collar."

Upon hearing his name, Jimi left off from his snoozing by the fire, and made his way over to his Alpha. He sat and cocked his head, peering at the four newcomers curiously.

Lucifer's eyes lit up. "He is one of mine!" he declared triumphantly. "He carries the Blood of the Pit!"

"Well, technically, yeah," Dean nodded, then added with a touch of pride, "He's Alpha dog of the Infernal Pack."

Lucifer trotted up to Jimi, and stared him in the eye. "Recognise your Alpha," he commanded, "Recognise your Lord, and true Master, he who called forth your Blood, he who gave your breed form and purpose."

Jimi whuffed attentively, and dropped, eyes fixed on Lucifer.

"I command you to destroy these impudent humans!" the chihuahua ordered, "I command you to tear their flesh, rend their innards, and send their screaming souls to the depths of the lowest Circle! Obey me, and do my will, First Beast, Leader of Bloody Damnation, Diabolical Companion! He who was the first Dominican summons you to your destiny!"

With a soft woof, Jimi gently picked up Lucifer, held him firmly between his front paws, and began to wash him tenderly.

"It appears that your command of your creations is somewhat diminished, brother," sniggered Raphael.

"You are mistaken, Lucifer," Michael's doggy face smiled, "This dog's soul shines so brightly, he will surely be a ward of the Guardian of Companions when his mortal life is done."

"Oh, crap! That's the funniest thing I've seen all week!" panted Gabriel happily.

"HAAAAAAALP!" yelped Lucifer. "HE'S EATING MEEEEEEE!"

"No he's not," Bobby chuckled, "That's nuturing behaviour, so he's accepting you into his pack, offering his protection and companionship."

"I don't need this sort of companionship!" Lucifer squealed. "If I needed this sort of companionship, I'd go and visit Hel!"

"Think of it as a symbolic baptism, bro," Gabriel suggested, "Try to think of it as having your sins washed away."

"I'm getting my _ears _washed away!" Lucifer protested.

"To wash your sins away, that dog will have to wash you for a very long time," Michael let out a whuff of amusement, "Because your sins are manyieeeeeee!"

Satisifed that his first new pack member was adequately clean, Jimi seized Michael, held him carefully, and began to wash.

Raphael cocked his head. "This is strange," he announced uncertainly, "I am feeling an intense desire to run underneath that piece of furniture to avoid similar ablutions."

"Last one under the sofa's next in the spa!" yipped Gabriel, zooming under the sofa.

"Wait for me, brother!" Raphael was right behind him.

"How long are they supposed to stay with us?" asked Sam, watching in horrified fascination as God's most senior archangel had his ears thoroughly cleaned.

"Until such time as they gain insight into the meaning of brotherhood and family," answered Castiel, beaming happily at the scene before him.

Dean looked down as Lucifer snuffled in amusement while Michael howled in objection.

"This could take a while," he surmised.

"Balls," said Bobby.

* * *

Happily, the followers of Jeshua ben Yusuf we have in the Jimiverse are taking this with a grain of salt and a sense of humour. And why wouldn't they? After all, I'm the one going to Hell.

Sadly, I have been incarcerated in a 'group training' situation and been required to listen to country music and write down what 'messages' I heard in the song. I wrote on the butcher's paper 'Hail Satan, kill them all'. After that, when I refused to play The Pirate Game on the grounds that five-year-olds would find it patronising, I was left to my own devices to read my book. If any of you are ever trapped in a workshop and the first thing the condescending 'facilitator' does is explain that everybody is entitled to their say, and then writes 'Rule#1: Share The Air' on the whiteboard, RUN FOR IT RUN GO FOR SHELTER AND NEVER LOOK BACK...

Reviews are the Cute And Adorable Winchester Of Your Choice Rolling Over And Giving You the Big Sad Eyes for a Tummy Rub on the Sofa Of Life!


	7. Chapter 6

**_SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM END OF CHAPTER FIVE_**

*Dean approaches door with gun drawn. Strange moaning noises come from behind it. He is about to break the door down when Sam comes rushing out, a look of concentration on his face*

**Dean:** Whoa, whoa, I thought I'd lost you, bro!

**Sam:** Can't talk Dean, have to fetch chocolate!

**Dean:** No, no, it's not safe to be carrying chocolate, not with _them_ around...

**Sam:** Gotta go!

*Sam disappears around a corner.*

**Dean:** ? ? ?

*Sam reappears clutching chocolate bars. He gives Dean a big smile, and rushes back through the door.*

**Dean:** Sam!

*Dean follows Sam and is confronted by the sight of his brother on his back with all four limbs in the air as Leahelisabeth gives him tummy rubs.*

**Leahelisabeth:** Who's a good boy, then? Who's a good boy?

*Sam pants happily*

**Dean:** Get away from my brother!

*aeicha and Georgia leap out from behind him, and inflict tummy rubs.*

**Dean: **Ooooh-er! What the hell do you think you're... ooooooh...

*He falls to the carpet panting happily.*

**Jimi:** Rowf.

**Lampito (pulling face of distaste):** Come here, big fella, I'll rub your tummy while your Alpha and Second are otherwise occupied. Weirdos.

**_fin_**

**_..._**

The Denizens; depraved, but they get shit done.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

What is comeuppance?

The answer to that is: it depends.

Just desserts, you getting yours, what you were asking for, what you had coming, smackdown, reprisal, taking your lumps, what's due, payback, karma, rough justice, penance, reaping as you sow, tit for tat, quid pro quo, being hoist upon one's own petard, admonition, retribution, castigation, condemnation, possibly castration, your turn in the barrel, getting boned up the arse by the pineapple of the universe (rough end first). The little green hydrogen-breathers refer to it as 'Having your antennae knotted behind your floopers while your hive neighbours rejoice to see you humbled' (it sounds snappier in Frooblian). These are just some descriptions of it.

What is universal about any instance is that, somewhere, somebody thinks you deserve it.

And somebody is pointing and laughing at you until they puke.

Comeuppance gets bonus points if hilarious irony is included. Irony is not rain on your wedding day (unless you've ditched your faithful long-time fiancé to skip town and elope with a meteorologist who assures you that it's safe to wear the chiffon that becomes transparent when it's wet). It's not a free ride when you already paid (unless you've just been mugged on your way home from a 'Shoot Public Transport Fare Dodgers' rally by an out-of-work ticket inspector). And it is not good advice that you just didn't take (unless you're a motivational speaker who gets paid to tell people how to win friends and influence people and you have no friends and everyone single person you encounter immediately decides that you're a dickhead). Comeuppance doesn't have to encompass irony. But the funny side will be rendered even more amusing if it does. (For the people who are pointing and laughing, anyway; for the recipient, not so much.)

Immensely powerful celestial beings who regarded the humans they were supposed to watch over as being no better than a pack of lewd and ravenous animals, suddenly being rendered a pack of animals and being required by an immensely more powerful being to learn to act more like the humans supposed to watch over them (one of whom who was frequently lewd and ravenous), might have a powerful suggestion of comeuppance to it. It might also be regarded as ironic.

It might also be regarded, from a certain point of view, as very, very funny.

Initially, though, the individuals who were in a position to point and laugh at how the mighty had fallen were too bemused, befuddled and/or pissed off to enjoy the situation that much (except for Castiel, who stood beaming and radiating brotherly love and optimism and confidence and faith in a way that made Dean want to pull his feathers until he cried).

"I don't suppose we could, you know, file a protest motion against this?" asked Sam.

"I'm guessing not," replied Dean gloomily, surveying the small dogs before him.

"I am certain that my Father knows what He is doing," Castiel intoned contentedly.

"Says the guy who had to mind the store when his Dad was AWOL," griped Dean, "I gotta tell ya, Cas, I don't have a lot of faith in your Dad."

"That does not matter," Castiel continued to beam, "Because He has every faith in you."

Dean sighed. "You know, if you don't turn off that neon sign reading 'Everything Is Going To Be All Right' glowing over your head, I'm going to pull your plaits, Pollyanna," he muttered.

"My Father works in mysterious ways," Castiel reaffirmed.

"You know, from a certain point of view," suggested Bobby, chucking as Jimi shouldered the sofa aside to retrieve a squealing Raphael for his turn at ear-washing, "We might also say that He works in hilarious ways."

"I fail to see the amusement in our situation," humphed Michael.

"You are correct, brother," Lucifer agreed, "There is nothing remotely funny about this. Although," he continued slowly, "I do feel somehow... lighter. Cleansed, even."

"Well, until such time as we figure out what we're going to do, you angelic idjits can go outside, and get the hang of being dogs," Bobby nodded.

"And what exactly are we supposed to do?" asked Michael in confusion.

"Things that dogs do," Bobby told him. "You probably need to get off your angelic clouds, and have some fun. Learn to appreciate the simple things that make dogs happy. Dig holes, bark at rabbits, play a game of chase or tug-of-war, rassle, do some ass-sniffing..."

"You have a donkey here?" asked Raphael hopefully.

"... Pee on trees, snap at butterflies, chew on sticks, snooze in the sun, those things that dogs do," Bobby finished.

"I do not wish to go outside," Lucifer informed him. "It's comfortable indoors."

"If your Daddy had intended dogs to live indoors, they would all be whelped wearin' carpet slippers," Bobby frowned, "So, out you go. Now."

Jimi jumped up, woofed once, and led the way to the door. Gabriel, Raphael and Michael followed him, but Lucifer didn't.

"You got a problem there, Pancho?" Bobby asked him. "You suddenly lost the use of your legs? Waitin' for some no-talent airhead with fake titties to come along and put you in her handbag?"

"I will not be taking orders from any of you!" Lucifer snarled, baring his fangs and launching himself at Bobby's leg.

"God's tits!" roared the old Hunter in surprise as the diabolical Chihuahua tore into his trouser leg.

"Oh, for..." Sam sighed, reached down, and picked Lucifer up by the scruff of the neck. The small dog barked and snapped and frothed at the mouth at him, squirming and slavering.

"Sam, be careful!" yelped Dean, "He's probably rabid or something!"

"STOP THAT!" barked Sam, staring hard at the small dog and baring his own teeth.

Lucifer went "Yaipe!", and subsided to wide-eyed staring.

"Wow, since when did you turn Dog Whisperer?" grinned Dean. "Or should that be Angel Whisperer."

"For fuck's sake, Dean, I threw this asshole into the Cage," Sam rolled his eyes as he headed for the door, "You think I can't throw him into the back yard?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Do you see the donkey anywhere?" asked Raphael, looking around.

"No," Michael answered, sniffing suspiciously at the frayed piece of rope that Jimi presented him with. "What exactly is this?"

"It's a piece of rope, brother," Raphael answered.

"Yes, yes, I can see that it's a piece of rope," Michael snapped irritably, "What I mean is, why is this dog showing it to us?"

"I think you're meant to play with it, guys," suggested Gabriel, a grin forming on his doggy face as he slouched on his haunches, watching Jimi.

Raphael nosed at the rope. "I fail to see how this is meant to be the least bit amusing," he ventured uncertainly.

"I suppose we could ask," sighed Michael, "Seeing as Father wants us to learn about this sort of thing."

"I don't want to learn to be a lesser, mortal, disgustingly organic creature!" humphed Raphael. "It's demeaning! It's... Gabriel, what are you doing?"

Jimi was slouched back on his haunches with one leg in the air, doing what dogs do. Especially male dogs. And Gabriel was copying him.

He paused, and grinned at his brothers "I'm doing what dogs do," he panted happily.

His brothers watched him for a moment. "Why are you doing that?" asked Michael.

"You know, I've often wondered why dogs do this myself," Gabriel looked up briefly, "And now I think I know."

"Why, then?" pressed Raphael.

"Because they can," Gabriel grinned.

"This is a thing that dogs do?" Michael asked, still sounding uncertain.

"All the time," confirmed Gabriel, "And the bonus is, it drives humans nuts."

"Perhaps we should try it too, brother," Michael said to Raphael.

"It looks somewhat... unsanitary," Raphael sounded uncertain.

"If we are to be obedient sons, we must do as Father commands," Michael sounded surer of himself. He sat down beside on the other side of Jimi and observed the large dog's slouched posture. "So, I sit back like this," Raphael sat beside him and copied his movements, "Stick one leg out like this... then bend, and lick here..."

For a few moments, there was no sound except for the small noises associated with dogs doing what dogs do.

"This is extraordinary," announced Michael, "It is as if this body somehow just knows to do this."

"It feels... right," agreed Raphael. "It feels... correct. It feels..."

"Pretty good, actually," huffed Gabriel with a wag of his tail.

They were still doing what dogs do when Sam marched Lucifer out into the yard.

"I don't want to hear it," Sam told him sternly, "I had to put up with your pissing and moaning and your vicious tantrums for a century, Lucifer – and I'm over it."

Lucifer whined. Sam's displeasure washed over him, and he was mortified to find that his ears were drooping.

"I did not ask to have you arrogant, bullying flying dicks dropped on me, and I'm not crazy about the idea either," Sam went on, "But here you are, so suck it up. Sounds like Daddy isn't going to let you go home from camp until you get with the program. So I suggest that you find some butterflies to chase, or even a handbag to sit in, and make like a dog. Or a rat with a collar, as the case may be."

Sam deposited the whining Chihuahua on the ground, and went back inside.

Then the door flew open again, and he stuck his head out and glared at the other three archcanines.

"And you bastards can stop doing that!" he yelled, before banging the door shut again.

"I thought we were supposed to be out here experiencing dog-like behaviour," Michael paused, sounding puzzled. "Why does he want us to stop?"

"He's just jealous," Gabriel answered airily, "Because the average human male's spine isn't flexible enough for them to do this."

They paused as they noticed Lucifer making his way towards them, head down and tail between his legs.

"What is wrong, brother?" Michael asked.

"I don't know," Lucifer whined, "Something strange happened. Sam yelled at me. He was... displeased with me, and, and, and... it made me feel terrible!"

Raphael looked puzzled. "Why would you care that a human is dipleased with you?" he asked, genuinely mystified.

"I don't know!" howled Lucifer. "I just do!"

Jimi whuffed gently, pulled Lucifer in and began to wash his ears. This time, the Chihuahua didn't object.

"This whole canine existence does seem to involve a lot of licking," noted Raphael thoughtfully.

"It's ridiculous!" yipped Lucifer, "He was meant to be my vessel, I should be angry at him for this but he's angry at me, and, and, and... owwwwwooooooooo!"

"Don't be upset, brother," Raphael whuffed encouragingly, "We have learned a dog behaviour that might make you feel better. I must admit that, strangely enough, it is oddly... pleasant."

"It is?" Lucifer sounded doubtful.

"Indeed," agreed Michael. "We will show you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam flung the window open and shouted "Stop it! Stop doing that!" again. The archcanines looked at him briefly, then went back to doing what dogs do.

"They're doing it on purpose," Sam scowled, "They're doing it to annoy me!"

"They're doin' what dogs do," grinned Bobby, "Which is what I told 'em to go out and do."

"What's the matter, Francis?" smiled Dean. "You jealous?"

"It's not the sort of thing I'd expect from archangels who claim to hate the 'bestial behaviour' of us mud monkeys," Sam was not convinced.

"Well, seein' as they're in dog bodies, maybe they're gonna experience the sort of thoughts and feelings that go with bein' a dog," postulated Bobby.

"That may well be the case," agreed Castiel. "I believe that is why our Father specifically chose dogs; they are pack animals, happiest in a group, and by nature inclined to co-operation and interaction with humans. For instance, Lucifer is currently experiencing unhappiness at being chastised by Sam."

"He is?" Sam sounded surprised, then his face hardened. "Well, considering how much 'unhappiness' I experienced being 'chastised' by him, it's hard to feel sorry for him."

"I suppose that the sooner you boys get this show on the road, the sooner you'll be rid of 'em," noted Bobby philosophically, "So my advice is, find a Hunt to take the Furry Foursome on, and start the group therapy ASAP."

"At least we got Jimi to help," Dean noted, looking out the window and seeing Jimi start to wash a despondent-looking Lucifer's ears again.

"Dogs are by nature generous and forgiving souls," Castiel smiled out at the scene, "Which is why they all go to Heaven. And why they put up with humans so readily. Archangels are not the only ones who could learn from dogs." He cocked his head as if listening to some internal radio. "I must go," he told them, "My Father requires my presence."

"No rest for the Sheriff of Heaven, eh?" snorted Bobby.

"I believe He may be reviewing a report from Danael regarding the behaviour of some of the fledglings," Castiel reported. "She is accusing them of... it is difficult to describe; they sneak into her... place of work, and leave psychotemporal imprints of the base wavelengths of their grace upon her... means of making records for the Heavenly Archives."

Dean thought carefully about what Castiel had just said. "So basically," he translated slowly, "A bunch of student angels are sneaking into the library, and, and, what, photocopying their asses?"

Castiel gave him what Sam thought of as the Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom. "If we were to look for a crude analogy to render their conduct into terms humans could understand," he eventually replied, "That would be... close."

Dean broke into a grin. "Awesome!" he declared. "Hey, tell them that if they ever want any ideas, I have a whole bunch that will drive an uptight librarian nuts..."

Castiel disappeared in a flap of trench coat.

"Hey! Cas!" Sam called anxiously, "What are we supposed to... damn," he huffed. "What do you think he meant by that? Archangels not being the only ones who could learn from dogs?"

"Well," Dean began thoughtfully, "Maybe he means that if you took up yoga and practised really really diligently your back would end up flexible enough for you too to be able to bend over far enough to lick your own..."

"Jerk."

* * *

I think I have a job lined up for the Winchesters to take the Furry Foursome on, but once again, I seek the input of the Denizens...

A) Tutus OR Wings?

B) Who gets to wear 'the suit', Sam OR Dean?

Reviews are the Winchester of Your Choice Photocopying... no, no, they're the Ear Washing from The Winchester of Your... no, um, they're the Disturbingly Flexible... no, just no... er...

Please send reviews; they inspire the bunny to dictate further chapters.


	8. Chapter 7

Okay, the voting so far (matrix is a bit wobbly because ffn stubbornly edits out spaces and line breaks that it deems 'unnecessary'):

. . . . .|WINGS_|_TUTUS_

SAM.. |..xx. . . .| xxxx

DEAN | xxxx. . .| xxxx

Plus 2 votes for Dean without a choice of accessories. But you still have opportunity to decide!

Meanwhile, I apologise for the delay. The bunny clammed up, then I had to spend the weekend preparing ninjabread men (my turn to cater for our weekly meeting; if we didn't have morning tea of some description, nobody would turn up) and they're fiddly little bastards to cut out and then to ice with melted chocolate afterwards.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

What is a martyr?

The answer to that... I think you know where this is going.

If you were to ask Dean at that point, he'd point to himself, and probably go 'Ta-dah!'

He'd headed outside to wash his car – or, as he liked to say, spend some quality time with his Number One Girl – leaving Sam with instructions to 'Find us a Hunt, preferably one with a fugly that likes to eat small dogs and pisses JD'.

The archcanines were playing tug-of-war with Jimi, which is to say, Jimi sat patiently with one end of the old frayed rope toy between his teeth, whilst the four small dogs hauled determinedly on the other end. When he saw his Alpha, though, he dropped the rope, and trotted over to Dean.

The small dogs tumbled backwards, then bounced to their feet, yapping.

"That game was stupid and pointless!" yipped Raphael. "Yet we were victorious and that pleases me greatly!"

"I have no idea why I was compelled to pull on that rope!" declared Michael, "But we have won!"

"We have possession of the rope!" barked Lucifer. "I do not understand why winning possession of a decomposing piece of twisted vegetable fibre is so gratifying!"

"Come on, guys, it was fun," gruffed Gabriel. "Admit it."

"We are not here to have fun," Michael instructed sternly, "We are here to learn, as our Father wishes."

"We should be planning our revenge," Lucifer eyed Dean.

"We should be looking for the donkey," Raphael insisted.

"Or, we could sit here in the sun, and, you know, do what dogs do," Gabriel suggested.

Michael drew himself up to his full height of twelve puggly inches at the shoulder. "I am Father's general, and eldest here," he intoned, "And I believe we should investigate further dog-like behaviours."

"What if I don't want to investigate further dog-like behaviours?" snapped Lucifer.

"Well, you've enjoyed the ones we've investigated so far, haven't you?" prompted Gabriel. "How do you know you won't enjoy others if you don't even try them?"

Lucifer glared at him in sullen silence.

"Very well," whuffed Michael, "We shall approach Dean Winchester's dog Jimi, and ask him for further demonstration regarding..." he suddenly broke off, raising his flat little nose to the breeze. Do... do any of you smell that?" he asked.

Three more noses lifted to the air.

"That is... that is..." Raphael sniffed eagerly, his little tail wagging. "I do not know why that smell is so... _interesting_..."

"Wow," breathed Lucifer, quivering from head to foot, "Somehow, that smell makes me want to... do something..." He whined, and spun around on the spot. "I have to do something!"

"Yes!" agreed Raphael, tail wagging even harder, "Michael, we have to do something!"

"I know, I know," Michael whined, "But I do not know what!"

Gabriel sniffed again. "Smells to me like an unwary squirrel," he decided.

Uttering the word seemed to work on his brothers the way pulling the pin out usually works on hand grenades.

"_Squirrel!"_ they all yapped, setting off at high speed in the direction of the smell.

"Hey, wait for me!" Gabriel took off after them as fast as his little legs would carry him.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"God's tits, boy, what happened to you?" asked Bobby, when a wet, bedraggled and very annoyed looking Dean made his way back into the house.

"Not what, who," Dean griped, "You should be asking who happened to me. I'll give you three guesses. No, you'll need four."

"What was all the barking about?" asked Sam.

"The archidiots found a squirrel, and chased the little guy up a tree," Dean explained, "And they wouldn't shut up. 'Squirrel! Squirrel! It is a squirrel!' 'We have pursued the squirrel, brothers! See how it flees us!' 'I wish to smite the squirrel!' It was like having a bunch of pre-schoolers chasing an ice-cream truck."

"So, what, the squirrel turned the hose on you?" Bobby asked.

"They wouldn't shut up, so I got the tug toy rope, and set them up in a tug-of-war again," Dean said, "With each other. Michael and Gabriel versus Raphael and Lucifer. Actually, it was kind of hilarious," he grinned briefly, "They were growling, and running around each other, and they seemed to be having fun. Best of all, they were quiet."

"Not seeing how this has led to you sufferin' from premature sanitation," frowned Bobby.

"Well, I went back to my girl," Dean growled, "I'd hosed her down, and was just reaching down to pick up the sponge out of the bucket, when the little bastards ran past, in pairs, with the rope strung between them..."

"Oh, dear," Sam grinned, "Tripping hazard."

"I went head first into the bucket!" snapped Dean. "Then, when I went to rinse the soap out of my eyes, one of them had left tiny little rat-dog teeth holes in the end of the hose, and the water sprayed everywhere!"

"Well, they're not tryin' to kill each other," Bobby observed philosophically, "So maybe there's hope for them yet. Good to know they can co-exist, as dogs anyway, when you take 'em out on the job."

"You cannot seriously expect us to take the Four Flying Dick Dogs on a Hunt?" spluttered Dean.

"Well, Castiel was pretty clear that that's what his, er, Father had in mind," Sam reminded him.

"Why us, Sam? Why us? Have we not suffered enough?" asked Dean as plaintively as a small child who's been told that the only flavour of ice cream left is Brussels Sprout Ripple. "Since we were kids, we have forsaken anything resembling a normal life to fight the fight that hardly anybody even knows about. We have Hunted unnatural things, fought evil, stopped the Apocalypse, shoved the Leviathans back into Purgatory. Seeking neither reward nor enjoyment, not even acknowledgement most of the time, we have spent our lives saving people, when we're not saving the world. And what thanks do we get from the Big Guy Upstairs? Do we get a weapon for the fight we wage on His behalf? Do we get the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch? The Beatific Sword of Righteous Ass-Kicking? Or even the Slightly Sacred But Very Solid Stale Twinkie of Bumfuck, Somestate That Can Concuss A Smallish Elderly Coyote In An Emergency?"

"I thought it was impossible for a Twinkie to go stale," commented Bobby.

"That's an urban myth," Sam informed him, without looking up from his laptop. "They store pretty well because they don't have any dairy products in them, but their shelf life is actually no more than about a month. And why you'd want to concuss a coyote I don't know, they tend to be shy animals that would rather run away from a human."

Dean wasn't to be stopped mid-rant by random injections of common sense. "Do we get something useful, like a charge card with the account sent to the Vatican? Do we get something medical, like a miraculous elixir that will kick a common cold's ass or a packet of blessed band-aids that will heal a wound? Do we even get something amusing, like an image of the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, or a pizza with Jesus on it, that we could sell on eBay? Something as simple as a Heavenly pat on the head, and a small thank-you note? No – what we get is His delinquent kids dumped on us. His delinquent kids who have all, at some stage, either tried to kill me, or actually killed me..."

"For your sins," suggested Bobby, not looking up from the book he was consulting.

"Hey, I've been to Hell!" Dean protested. "That has to count for something! I've been to Hell, twice!"

"Dean, that time you had to hole up in that Ursuline convent with nobody to talk to except Sister Josephus doesn't count as Hell," Sam pointed out.

"You didn't have to listen to her," Dean shuddered. "That woman knew more about perversion than Lucifer, and she was determined to make sure I knew that she knew."

"Dean, she was ninety-two!" Sam spluttered.

"Huh, like she let that slow her down. She warned me against things that I didn't think were anatomically possible, let alone legal. Nobody should have to listen to a fossilised nun talk about stuff like that..."

"We've heard tell that the Almighty has faith in you," Bobby reminded them. "That right there would count to a lot of people as a great big Heavenly pat on the head."

"Yeah, like that makes me feel so much better," griped Dean, determined to enjoy a good grump, "That makes it all better, while I'm being martyred here, a hundred years from now people will pray to Saint Dean, the patron saint of inadequately paid child care workers who've had other people's ADHD kids dumped on them..."

"It doesn't work like that," Sam told him, "Just because you're a martyr doesn't mean you automatically become a saint, and to become a saint you don't have to be a martyr."

"Martyr, saint, same thing," humphed Dean.

"It's not," Bobby told him brusquely. "Martyrs are killed for affirming they believe in their god, in the face of persecution. Wanting to kill some angels because you believe that your god is persecuting you, not the same thing."

"And saints have to be, well, saintly," Sam added, nodding. "Don't think you count, bro. Not unless boozing, fornication and ingestion of junk food have suddenly become Heavenly Virtues."

"Then, there's the miracle thing," Bobby continued. "You gotta have performed a miracle or two. And eatin' three boxes of donuts without throwin' up, while it may confound medical science, does not count."

"Putting up with extreme annoyance should count for sainthood," declared Dean.

"In that case, put me down as Saint Samuel," his brother said, "Patron saint of those who have really annoying big brothers. I will intercede for those who petition me by, oh, I don't know, making car stereos explode, maybe..."

Dean glared at him.

"And there's not much we can do about it," Sam went on philosophically, "Just roll with it, I guess. What are they doing, anyway?"

Dean glanced out the window. "Either they've cornered a demon, or they've run a rabbit to ground. Three of them, anyway. Not Lucifer."

"Oh, dear, there's always one labelled 'Does not play well with others'," sighed Bobby.

"Actually, I think he'd like to be barking at the demon rabbit," Dean observed, "But Auntie Rumsfeld is washing his ears again."

Bobby chortled. "They've given up on tug-of-war with Jimi, then," he noted.

"That was kind of funny,' Dean admitted, "The four of them together can't weigh more than seventy pounds, and Jimi's nearly a hundred more than that."

"Well, you know what they say," Bobby shrugged, "The important thing is not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." He paused, and glanced out the window to where Lucifer had escaped Rumsfeld's ablutive attention, only to be nabbed by Janis for continued cleansing. "Unless there's ear-washing involved, then all bets are off."

Dean sighed, and bent to peer at the laptop screen. "You found us a job?"

"I think so," Sam answered. "I was looking at a couple of unsolved murders, then I found a couple more." He brought up a page of notes. "It started several months ago, on the west coast. A homeless guy was murdered. The body was pretty decomposed by the time it was found, but the medical examiner noted that a piece of lung tissue was missing, probably taken by scavenging animals. Then, a couple of weeks later, another one. Another homeless person, a woman, murdered and stashed where she wouldn't be found for some time. Again, a chunk of lung missing, but so were other tissues, again assumed to be due to feral animals. Then three weeks later, a guy who was a cat hoarder died in his own home."

"Let me guess," Dean forestalled his brother, "He was a loner, the town weirdo people rarely saw, mumbled to himself and shouted at passing traffic, and when he dropped out of sight, nobody noticed until a mailman happened to catch the smell one day weeks later."

"That's pretty much it," Sam nodded. "Cause of death couldn't be established conclusively. The cats had made a start on him, and again, the pathologist documented a piece of lung missing. There's a list of these," he indicated his notes, "Sometimes murder, sometimes no determination of cause of death can be made, but lung tissue missing. Until the one case where the woman who was murdered was found just a day later. And, unless feral dogs have suddenly learned to wield scalpels, somebody had deliberately excised a piece of lung from her."

"Do we know of any fugly that just likes to snack on lung?" Dean pulled a face. "If we do, I hope it's brushed its teeth when we catch up with it."

"Not that I know of," Bobby told him. "Although we checked."

"This is human doing," Sam asserted, "A human – or humans. Fuglies as a rule aren't so neat in their incisions. But as to why..."

"Aha! Found it!" announced Bobby, pointing to a passage in the ancient tome he'd been consulting. "Knew I'd seen something like it. You need lung tissue for a levitation spell."

Dean looked perplexed. "How the hell does that work?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

"Ha! Work that out, and I'll never call you 'idjit' again," snorted Bobby. "Some association with the element of air, probably. Yeah, this is it. A piece of lung from an unbaptised individual, it says here."

Dean peered hard at the list of dates and places. "If these are connected, there's a pattern here," he noted, pulling a battered map on the table towards himself. "Look. The oldest one you identified happened in California, almost a year ago. Then, Nevada, then Oregon, then Idaho..." he traced out a looping pattern that moved north-south, and gradually east. "It doesn't cross itself. It's like a trail systematically covering the country."

"The most recent one was in Nebraska," Sam pointed, "Which means... it's coming to us?"

"Looks like it," agreed Dean. "So, if those people are all unbaptised, we got a case."

"I'm on it," Sam began to tap at the keyboard just as a loud yelp came to their ears from the kitchen.

Jimi came barrelling through the door at high speed, eyes wide with alarm, and headed immediately up the stairs, giving off the impression that here was a dog who was looking for a bed to hide under.

"What's burnin' his biscuits?" wondered Bobby.

"It's those rat-dogs," growled Dean, "They must've done something."

He stormed outside, and a few moments later, Bobby and Sam heard him gasp "Oh, fuck me!"

They hurried outside to see what the matter was.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam demanded, looking on in bewilderment as the four archcanines circled Dean, yapping in excitement. "What's wrong? What have they... oh, er, oh, God, that's disgusting..."

"It wasn't a demon-rabbit they cornered after all," sighed Dean, "It was a skunk."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchesters of Your Choice dunked in Soapy Water from the Bucket Of Life! (Possibly needing assistance to get out of wet clothes.)


	9. Chapter 8

You still have time to vote for wings OR tutus, and Dean OR Sam in 'the suit', but I'll have to make a decision next chapter.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

What is a bath?

The answer to that is: it depends.

As with so many things, it's all about context.

If you are a busy, stressed, tired, worn-out individual, a warm bath can be a soothing and enjoyable alternative to multiple homicides in the workplace, and is also less likely to get you arrested, provided you take your bath in a bathroom and not, for example, in a public swimming pool (not only could the public nudity be a problem, but the thrashing of senior citizens doing their aquaerobics will turn your modest amount of bubble bath into a heaving mess of bubbles that will make it impossible to read your book over the mounds of foam. Someone is also likely to steal your rubber ducky, although while you are being booked for public indecency you can always file a Missing Duck report at the police station).

In J.R.R. Tolkien's book 'The Lord of the Rings – The Fellowship of the Ring', he invoked this theme of relaxation at the end of a hard day, when three of the hobbits took a bath after arriving at Frodo's new house in Buckland. 'Sing hey for the bath at close of day' they sang, in a gentle appeal to appreciate the simple pleasures of the ordinary creature comforts in one's own home, and conjuring up the relaxing ritual of a soak in hot water at the end of a long, tiring day. (We are indeed lucky that the book was written by a genteel Oxford don born in the nineteenth century. Had the story actually been written by a late twentieth/early twenty-first century author with a view to selling the film rights to Hollywood, the hobbits would have been vampires, sung their song in praise of a bath whilst taking one in Galadriel's mirror, and been armed with heavy calibre firearms, giving the screen writers a chance to hire some young actors with good abs if no talent who would down trou on screen to play the hobbits, with Vin Diesel as Aragorn and Megan Fox as Galadriel (the splashing would definitely get her translucent nightie soaking wet) and Kristen Stewart playing the part of the jug carried by Legolas because she certainly has the emotive range for the part.)

If you are a small, active child, engaged in some enjoyable activity that is by default mucky, being required to cease your entertainment and be whisked indoors to be submerged in soapy water is not enjoyable. Were children to run the UN, forced bathing would be counted as a form of torture, with Amnesty International running campaigns to name and shame toiletries manufacturers, and the practice of 'waterboarding' would be just as morally repugnant but involve less suffocation and more exfoliation.

The same applies to dogs. Water can be fun to play in, provided it's in a stagnant pond, a murky river, a muddy dam or a beach (where the water might not be too dirty per se, but will have rotting seaweed and the occasional dead jellyfish along the edges to roll in as compensation). At a pinch, paddling in the clean drinking water bucket is amusing, because it doesn't take much paddling to get the water amusingly dirty. However, the minute the water is warm and soapy, the whole bathing thing becomes a dreadfully unpleasant process.

This opinion is usually shared by the humans doing the bathing. Especially if the dogs have found something even more wonderfully fragrant than a dead jellyfish...

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" Michael could hardly contain himself. "It fled before our wrath!"

"I smote that beast," gruffed Raphael contentedly, spitting out a few black and white hairs, "And it felt most righteous."

"It was the fear in its beady eyes that I found so compelling," Lucifer yipped, "It regarded us, and beheld its ending!"

"I thought she was kind of cute," panted Gabriel, "She had the most lovely eyes, and she was a cuddly looking little thing..."

Bobby's face was grim as he prepared to brew a batch of his dog deskunking mix. "Get me the bicarb, the peroxide, the dishwashin' liquid, and a triple measure of the hardest liquor you can find in the cabinet," he ordered as he fished under the sink for a large bucket, while Sam scrambled to obey.

"This is no time to be baking a cake, Bobby," said Dean, trying to fend off the four small excited dogs before they contaminated him as well, "And the whole hair bleaching thing, really got things other than having my highlights touched up to worry about just now..."

"No, no, this is to get rid of the smell," Sam assured him, fetching the items Bobby called for. As the older Hunter indicated, Sam tipped in the various ingredients as Bobby stirred, watching the brew carefully. "The peroxide will oxidise the thiols in the skunk spray, converting them to soluble sulphonic acids that wash away easily, the sodium bicarbonate will neutralise acidic odour compounds and buffer the solution since it's amphoteric, the detergent and the alcohol will break up and solubilise the oily secretion base..."

"Not that, ya idjit!" barked Bobby as Sam was about to tip the liquor into to bucket. "That's not for deskunkin', that's for drinkin'!" He downed the triple shot in a few gulps. "Gah! No man can tackle a skunked dog completely sober."

"In that case, pour me four triples," interjected Dean, batting at the four excited pooches as he filled a large tub with soapy water then deftly grabbed Michael by the collar, holding him at arm's length to be swabbed with Bobby's brew.

"Why must I be washed?" Michael demanded, as Dean manhandled him unceremoniously into the tub. "That was the most interesting thing I've ever smelled!"

"I wish to retain this odour!" insisted Raphael, "Truly, the work of our Father is marvellous!"

"Ohhhh, the ladies would love this," sighed Gabriel dreamily, "Scent of Skunk! Perfume of Polecat! You're a bunch of buzzkills, you know that?"

"Don't drop me! Don't drop me!" squealed Lucifer, as Sam dunked him carefully in the deskunking brew. "Don't droooooowwwwn meeeeeeeeee!"

"I'm not drowning you!" Sam replied, "Although I won't deny that I'm tempted..."

Lucifer set up a high-pitched, distressed yelping until Sam lifted him from the bucket. From a safe distance, Jimi had emerged to honk encouragement to all parties with Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig toy.

"Calm down, I gotcha, nobody's going to drown anybody," Sam sighed, as Lucifer's scrabbling legs flung splatters of the frothy gunk around. "Now we're just going to wash this stuff off, and you'll be fine."

"Seems like they've all acquired a dog's body's instinctive dislike for soapy water," chuckled Bobby, hanging on to Gabriel and Raphael tightly while Michael and then Lucifer protested loudly at being washed.

"Well, for the record, let me say that I'm not crazy about the process either," griped Dean. "What the hell possessed you idiots to provoke a skunk?"

"It challenged us," said Michael.

"It defied us," said Raphael.

"It was just asking for a smiting," said Lucifer.

"It's gotta be the dog body thing," suggested Gabriel, "It's like a sort of brain snap – something small and twitchy runs, I just gotta chase it. Especially when she smells that good. She waggled her nose at me. I think she liked me." He rolled big brown eyes up at Sam. "I don't suppose you could leave just a little of it behind my ears?" he asked wistfully. "Maybe if I could go back and talk to her without three clueless big brothers threatening to smite her, you know, just talk, maybe take her a nice raisin..."

"Dude, you are not going chatting up lady skunks!" insisted Dean.

"Why not?" asked Gabriel, as he was next into the destinking bucket.

"Because, lady skunks are lady skunks," Sam told him, "And raisins are nephrotoxic to a lot of animals, so no raisins anyway."

"At least stick with your own species," Dean instructed.

"Racist," muttered Gabriel as he was passed across to Dean for soapy water dunking.

When the fragrant foursome had been cleansed and towelled off (except for Lucifer – Jimi took him gently and dried him off with a good licking), Sam addressed them as they sat on the porch.

"Now, stay away from skunks," he told them sternly.

"We were instructed to do things that dogs do," Raphael pointed out.

"By our Father, as well as by Bobby," Michael added, "And chasing skunks is definitely a dog behaviour."

"Yeah, well, so is chasing cars and getting squashed flat; just because you can doesn't mean you should," Sam answered brusquely. "So, just stay away from skunks. Do other dog things... not that!"

"Admit it, bucko," panted Gabriel, "You're just jealous. Don't tell me you haven't ever tried to do this just once."

"Try digging a hole instead," Sam finished as he headed inside. "Then, preferably, pull all the dirt in on yourselves," he muttered as the door shut.

Raphael sniffed at himself. "I dislike smelling this... clean," he decided.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," intoned Michael. "Yet... I believe you have a point, brother."

"It's not natural," whined Lucifer, "Why must I constantly be cleaned?"

"Hey, no problemo, big bros," grinned Gabriel, "I'm pretty sure I caught a whiff of some fox crap over thataway. We should go investigate." They brightened considerably at the idea. "Essence of Excrement," the terrier Trickster nodded, "And if anyone asks, rolling in the stuff is definitely a dog behaviour."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam spent several hours chasing church records through various states. "Well, it's not possible to prove that someone _wasn't _baptised," he qualified, "But in no case so far can I find any record of any of these individuals having been. In a lot of cases, they're from families that don't have any churchgoing members, so the circumstantial evidence is pretty good. I'd say we have a case." He pushed back from the screen, and rubbed his eyes. "Although what it is, I have no idea yet."

"Probably a human," Bobby opined, "It could be a demon, but there just doesn't seem to be an adequate amount of coincident mayhem for one of them black-eyed asshats with a levitation spell, and I aint heard of anything that might be that."

"So probably a witch, then," Dean frowned. "Crap, I hate witches. But, on the upside, ganking them is a whole lotta satisfaction." He looked at his brother. "Take a break, bro, let me see," Dean snagged the laptop and started tapping at the keys. Sam left him to it, grateful for the break, and went in search of coffee. Finding patterns was Dean's forte, and he felt like he was going cross-eyed.

When he returned to the living room, Dean was peering avidly at the screen and smiling.

Sam frowned. "Dean," he began with a warning glare of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "We are supposed to be researching a case, not looking at porn."

Dean's expression was all guileless innocence. "Porn, Sam?" he asked brightly, "What makes you think I'm looking at porn?"

"The ridiculous smirk on your face," Sam griped.

"No, no, I'm not smirking, Sammy," Dean grinned broadly, "I'm smiling!"

"I just know I'm going to end up regretting asking," Sam muttered, "But why are you smiling?"

"Because, Sam, I'm awesome!" Dean told him. "I've figured out what the pattern is, I know where it's going, I know what it means, and I have a plan for how to take the flying dick dogs with us to find and tackle the evil witch!"

"Oh, joy," sighed Sam. "So, let's hear it."

"It's this list of murders," Dean explained, "If you take away the names, it's a list of places and dates. It reminded me of a tour shirt that lists all the gigs a band is playing on a tour, you know," he said reproachfully, "Like the one that you wanted to cut off me..."

"So, what, the murders are following somebody's itinerary?" Sam asked.

"I typed in the dates and places, and guess what I found? A tour list that included all of them," Dean beamed. "And, we won't have to go anywhere – given the pattern so far, they're coming to South Dakota before another murder is due to take place!"

"Okay," Sam nodded, "So, what's the plan? What do we do between now and then?"

"We work on our act, Sam!" Dean enthused, "We get the four rat dogs to earn their keep, and we pull together an act!"

"_What?_" Sam gawped at his brother. "You want us to be a support act for a band? Dean, that's impossible! I have no musical talent, and you, you have... anti-talent! And the four skunkwranglers? People who've paid to see live music will NOT be happy to see four small dogs run around in circles and smell bad! That's ridiculous. They'll already have support bands organised. And anyway, aren't we a little old to be running off to join a band, Dean?"

"Not a band, Sam," Dean's grin nearly ran right around his head as he turned the laptop around. Sam let out an involuntary yelp and jumped backwards; a grinning clown's face filled nearly the entire screen. "We're running away to join the circus!"

* * *

Reviews are a Nice Hot Soak in the Soothing Bath of Life!

_What?_

_What do you mean, 'Where does the Winchester Of My Choice fit in?'?_

_Oh, all right._

Reviews are a Nice Hot Soak in the Soothing Bath of Life While the Winchester Of Your Choice Fetches You Chocolate Or A Nice Cup Of Tea!

_Hmmmmm?_

_Oh, you people are depraved (even if you do get shit done)._

Reviews are a Nice Hot Soak in the Soothing Bath of Live Where the Winchester Of Your Choice Joins You For Some Mutual Back Washing!

_Happy now?_

_Perverts._


	10. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

What are clowns?

The answer to that is: it depends.

On how old you are, mostly.

If you want a contemporary definition of a clown, you will find descriptions of individuals who are figures of fun, wearing silly make-up, silly clothes and a silly hat, who do silly things, perform silly tricks, may even get around in a silly vehicle (a silly small car, or a silly bicycle with silly wheels that aren't actually round) and the end result of all this silliness is that it's hugely amusing and makes people smile and laugh and feel very happy.

Because clowns are what a certain type of adult thinks people, especially children, should find funny.

In the way that the history of a battle is written by the victors, the definition of a clown is written by the adults. Nobody actually asks the audience – especially kids – if they think clowns are funny.

Well, that's not completely true; somebody did bother to ask children, once, in a study carried out in a children's hospital, a venue that is a known haunt of clowns. The study found that of 250 children consulted, aged from four to sixteen, reported dislike of clowns, finding them scary or pointlessly stupid (to be fair to clowns, teenagers are likely to find anything done by any adult as pointlessly stupid, but that doesn't affect the validity of the research). The conclusion reached by the senior lecturer at Sheffield University overseeing the study? 'Clowns are universally disliked by children'.

Of course, that hasn't stopped doctors from dressing up as clowns and doing 'clown doctoring', and it hasn't stopped people hiring clowns for children's parties, and it hasn't stopped organisers of public events from employing clowns as 'children's entertainment', because adults don't actually play dress-ups and act like idiots for the benefit of any children. They might tell themselves that they're doing it 'for the kids', and get a warm fuzzy feeling from doing it, but they are actually doing it for themselves, for the same selfish reasons that dogs do what dogs do: because they find it fun, and because they can. If you are an adult, your paediatric patients or your children's birthday party guests or the kids being pushed at you by parents who think they should find you 'funny' are a captive audience who are not in a position to object, although there is always a chance that they will scream, puke, or urinate on you.

Children, especially those who have not yet learned the social conditioning that teaches us not to notice people we don't know who look 'wrong', because that would be _rude_, are more naturally suspicious of somebody who covers his face, wears ridiculous baggy clothes that could hide anything from a machete to a rabid Pitbull, and wants everybody to think he's so dumb he can't walk without tripping over his own feet. Mostly, they will indulge both parents and clown, because it's either transfixingly fascinating or disturbing to see 'grown-ups', who are the authority figures who run the world, acting like utter loons.

This is the mistake that adults make with children. Especially smart children. They may be ignorant because they are young, but 'ignorant' is not the same thing as 'gullible', or 'stupid'.

More often than you'd think, you will get an adult who retains a healthy wariness of anyone who wants to act the anonymous fool in public in the name of 'entertainment'. Sometimes they will call it 'coulrophobia', a fear of clowns, because giving it a Greek-derived name makes it sound medical and calling it irrational is less scary than paying attention to what the smart kid inside is saying, jumping up and down and shouting: What is he hiding?

If you ask some adults, they'll tell you clowns are funny.

Ask others, they'll tell you that, at best, clowns are vaguely disturbing or pointless (and they'll shrug apologetically, because we don't want to be _rude)_.

You'll get the odd adult who hasn't bought the 'irrational' bit about clowns. John Wayne Gacy. Bill Finger and Bob Kane. Stephen King. Todd McFarlane. Sam Winchester.

At best, clowns are pointless.

At worst, clowns are evil.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"The circus," Sam repeated in disbelief, staring at the screen. "You want to join the circus."

"Well, I don't actually _want_ to, as in 'If I don't get to run away to join the circus I'll throw myself on my bed and cry in a very loud and obnoxious manner and smear mascara all over anyone who gets too close', but I think that it's our best shot at infiltrating and checking out the performers," Dean qualified. "The pattern of murders follows their touring schedule exactly, and they're long gone by the time the bodies have been found. And," he pulled the laptop back and tapped at the keys, "They lost their very popular dog act a few weeks ago, when Fabulous Fritz and his Flying Fidos retired, and are on the look-out for a replacement. So, we get the archcanines to learn some tricks, and the Flying Dicks replace the Flying Fidos, giving us the perfect cover for recon!" He smiled winningly.

"I hate this plan," griped Sam.

"It's a good plan," Dean argued, "And there are plenty of acts that could be using a levitation spell. Look, there's trapeze artists, there's a high wire act, there's acrobats, aerial silk... there's a guy who does plate spinning, you can't tell me that's possible without some sort of unnatural assistance..."

"It uses the gyroscopic effect," replied Sam distractedly, "Although you can choose a type of plate with a sturdy rim on the bottom to help it stay on the stick..."

"Anyway, we got about a week before they hit Sioux Falls," Dean pointed out, "So we need to make a start."

"Dean, we don't know anything about training dogs to do circus tricks!" Sam protested.

"We don't have to," Dean smirked, "We can just explain stuff to them, since we can talk to them."

"Yeah, and they're going to be just jumping out of their fluffy little skins to obey us," Sam countered.

"Weeeeell, their Daddy did tell them to get with the program," Bobby pointed out, "And we could always try some bribery. They really do seem to be gettin' into the whole dog shtick, I aint met a dog yet who won't do somersaults for a piece of liver."

"Okay, so we got us a plan," Dean beamed, "We train the Flying Dicks to be amusing, we join the circus, we snoop around. It'll be dangerous of course, with a witch, so you should stay with the dogs, Sam, make sure they stay safe, because the Big Guy Upstairs would be so upset if anything happened to His kids, while I make charming conversation with the gymnasts, the ribbon dancers, the trapezists, and all those other beautiful, talented, lycra-clad and amazingly flexible women..."

"I can't wait," grumped Sam, aiming a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) at his brother and letting him have both barrels.

"Good!" chirped Dean. "Then you can get on with researching circus dog acts, and putting us together a routine. I'll go break the good news to the talent."

"Get 'em inside, Dean," Bobby looked at the falling even darkness, "Little guys like that won't stand up to the cold. They'll have to sleep inside."

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean grinned as he headed for the door, "You'll have the Fabulous Flying Dicks to protect you from any clowns."

"Oh, yeah, I suddenly feel so much happier about this plan," Sam snarked.

"You gotta have a name for your act," Bobby prompted him.

"Dickhead Dean and his Dancing Dogs of Dubious Decency," suggested Sam. "Heaven's Hairy Headaches. Eeny Meeny Miney and Assbutt. The Four Furry Fiendish Fuckers. No, no, wait, I got it, The Arrogant Aerial Assholes. They can wear little capes that have a big letter A on each one..."

"You may be onto something at least," Bobby peered at the screen, "Circus dogs need costumes of some sort."

As they perused various clips of dog acts, Dean came limping back into the living room.

"Sam, did you instruct those archidiots to dig a hole?" he growled.

"What? No!" Sam replied.

"Because they say you did," Dean went on.

"Oh. Um," stuttered Sam. "I may have, you know, mentioned it as an example of a possible dog behaviour that they could try, instead of chasing skunks..."

"Because they have dug a hole," Dean continued, "A very large hole. A very impressive hole. A very deep hole. A very deep dark hole. A very deep dark hole that was practically invisible in the dusk light."

"Oh. Uh, did you, um, fall in the hole and twist your ankle, Dean?" asked Sam solicitously.

"No, Sam," answered Dean calmly, "I was just standing there admiring the cold, unearthly beauty of the twinkling stars emerging from the soft shimmering velvet of the night sky, thinking about what tragically transient creatures we humans are, when a saucer of little green beings from Planet Frood flew down from space, got out of their space-ship and shot me in the ankle with their Atomic Inconvenience Guns before doing a victory dance and stealing all the daisies."

"Oh. Er, sorry," said Sam sheepishly. "Is there, uh, something I can do?"

"Yeah, there is," Dean turned and limped back towards the door, "You can come and help me fill in the hole, and wash them again. The little bastards have all rolled in fox shit."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It is a ridiculous idea," sniffed Michael, radiating annoyance at being bathed again.

"If you do not stop washing us, there will be nothing left anyway," agreed Raphael, backing Michael up. "Water erodes rocks, and rocks are a lot harder than us."

"Strangely enough, I believe I am starting to find this... soothing," mused Lucifer, as Jimi carefully groomed him again.

"Oh, come on, guys, it's the circus!" yipped Gabriel happily. "It'll be fun! There will be kids getting so wound up and excited they don't know whether to laugh and clap or wet their pants!"

His brothers regarded him with bemusement. "And that would be a good thing because...?" Lucifer prompted.

"Because," Gabriel whuffed and spun around in a circle. "Kids in that state drop hot dogs and cotton candy and popcorn and ice cream and toffee apples!"

"I fail to see how children dropping their confectionery can be such a wonderful thing," remarked Michael, "If anything, it is wasteful."

"No, no, no," Gabriel insisted, "It's not wasteful, because once they drop stuff, we can eat it!"

His older brothers looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Well, madder.

"Why do we want to ingest discarded foodstuffs?" asked Raphael tentatively.

"Because," Gabriel rolled his doggy eyes, "They are DELICIOUS!"

"If you were circus dogs, you wouldn't have to wait for stuff to get dropped," wheedled Dean, "You could just tell us what you wanted, and we could get it for you."

"Within reason," Sam hastily added, "Because a high-sugar and high-fat diet is just as bad for dogs as it is for kids, worse, even, because you're physically so small... but I'm sure that a modest supply of treats could be offered," he changed tack as Dean eyebrow-semaphored furiously at him, "Especially as you'd be working dogs, so you'd be burning it off."

"A circus has animals, then?" asked Raphael thoughtfully.

"Well, yeah," answered Sam. "This one has domesticated species. The use of 'wild' species, like big cats and elephants, is usually deemed unenlightened and cruel these days, but they have dogs, and ponies, sometimes birds, even."

"Horses? Equines?" Raphael was suddenly alert. "Would they have... donkeys?"

"I guess they could," Sam shrugged. "Some of them do rides for kids, or have them in a petting zoo."

The three eldest archcanines exchanged meaningful looks.

"We will accompany you on this Hunt," Michael spoke, "Tell us what these 'tricks' are that you wish us to perform."

"I'll have to do some research, see what they usually entail," Sam told them. "And Bobby says you should have costumes."

"I'm on that," Bobby called from the kitchen, where he was on the phone.

"So hopefully, we can make a start tomorrow," Sam finished.

"Very well," nodded Michael. His attention was drawn to Lucifer, who was looking pensive, and somewhat tense. "Is something the matter, brother?" he asked.

"I... am not sure," replied Lucifer a little faintly. "I... feel... unwell." Jimi whuffed supportively, and nuzzled the Chihuaha's ears.

"What? What's wrong?" asked Sam, looking up.

"I... do not know," Lucifer whined, "All I know is that I feel... dreadful."

"Do you feel sick?" asked Sam, kneeling by the tiny dog, "Where do you feel bad? You don't look distended or anything..."

In the ensuing silence, a terrible gurgling noise sounded very loud.

"What was that?" yipped Michael, jumping in fright.

"It was him!" Raphael squealed, eyes wide as he peered at Lucifer! "It was him! It came from him! He has contracted some terrible disease!"

A second resonant gurgle followed the first, this time from Raphael. "And now I have it!" Raphael squeaked. "A curse upon these frail, mortal, horribly organic and squishy mortal bodies!"

"Calm down, big bros," whuffed Gabriel, rolling his eyes, "You're not dying. You're hungry. So, Samsquatch, what say you leave off the choreography, and get with the catering? You got four starving working dogs here!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I have witnessed this ingestion business," moaned Raphael, "It is disgusting."

"I don't even know how to do it," Lucifer whined.

"Courage, brothers," Michael said briskly, "If humans can do it from birth without thinking, surely we can manage it."

"Boys, you are in for an education," grinned Gabriel, "Because that mouthwatering smell hanging in the air is pizza!"

"Okay then," announced Bobby, "That's four serves to Table Two." He and Sam put the dishes down in front of the four small dogs, and watched expectantly. The dogs peered uncertainly at the dishes, as if worried that their dinner was going to jump up and bite them.

Gabriel's happy grin faded. "What in unholy hell is this?" he demanded.

"Pet mince and kibble," Bobby told him.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr Singer," Gabriel continued, "But do I, or do I not, detect the delicious smell of a Meat Lovers with double pepperoni and extra cheese being heated in the oven?"

"You do indeed," nodded Bobby, "Because the human idjits have to eat as well."

"I suggest to you that a delectably fragrant pizza would be a more palatable meal than this," said Gabriel, big brown eyes dialled up to 'adorable'.

"I suggest to you that what you've been given is better than goin' hungry," replied Bobby serenely.

"We don't want this!" insisted Gabriel, "We want pizza! Right, guys?" He looked to his brothers. "Guys?"

His four older brothers were up to their eyeballs in dinner.

"I... feel much better now," Lucifer whuffed happily.

"Ingestion is certainly more gratifying than I would have thought," agreed Raphael, not looking up.

"Guys? A little back-up here?" Gabriel ventured, only to be drowned out by the sounds of doggy degustation.

"Cannot talk, brother, eating," said Michael.

"Looks like you're outvoted, son," grinned Bobby.

"What did you put in that stuff?" demanded Gabriel. "Methadone? Crack?"

"Liver," Bobby told him. "Try it, you might like it."

Gabriel shut his eyes, asked his Father for strength, and sampled his dinner.

He was soon scooting his bowl across the floor with his brothers.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"No," snapped Bobby.

Four pairs of eyes, dialled past 'adorable' and up to 'irresistable', bored into him.

"I said no," repeated Bobby. "Do you idjits want to go outside?"

The four small dogs moved on.

"Nuh-uh," Dean told them, "You've eaten already."

The four dogs moved again.

"Are you all deaf as well as irritating? No," Sam reiterated.

The eyes ratcheted up to 'squee'.

"Right, that's it," Sam said shortly, standing up, "If you're going to do that, you can wait outside while we eat."

Ears and tails drooping, radiating sadness, the four of them followed him onto the porch.

They sat, going for broke with eyes nudging the scale to 'We will make your head explode with the cute'.

"Ah, shit," grumbled Sam, taking the slice of pizza he was holding and breaking it into four pieces. "Don't make a habit of this, okay?"

"That's my boy," yipped Lucifer contentedly, licking up a string of cheese.

"Your vessel," Raphael commented to Lucifer as they scarfed the goodies, "He is... not so bad. For a human."

"Compassion for the needy, feeding the hungry, is a virtue," Michael agreed. "Our Father would approve."

"What about the thirsty?" queried Gabriel. "Michael, do you think you could get your vessel to open us a beer?"

If you'd asked any of the archcanines they would all deny that their tails wagged; it was just that the breeze was very strong that night.

* * *

Tutus or wings next chapter, I promise. Also, one of 'em in the suit. Last chance to vote!

The thing about kids not liking clowns? It's real. Search Dr Penny Curtis from the University of Sheffield. Poor Sam. It's a circus; _of course_ there will be clowns... Leahelisabeth, would it count as Sam-In-A-Box if they locked him in their tiny little clown car?

Reviews are the Slices Of Pizza Brought To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice As You Recline On The Porch Swing Of Life!


	11. Chapter 10

And so, the final vote gives us: Tutus, while Dean wears the suit!

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

What is a circus?

The answer to that is: it depends.

The idea of entertainment spectacles featuring exotic animals and human feats goes back to ancient times. People of all social ranks could enjoy a bit of gladiatorial bloodshed and goggle at improbable beasts procured from distant corners of the world. Most of the audience would be of the lower social ranks, and it would provide a gory, welcome distraction from the brutal grind of their lives. On a really good day, you might get exotic animals doing the bloodshedding, on each other or possibly on Persecuted Minority Of The Week, which was not only jolly good fun, but allowed the squalid masses to console themselves that their lives might be brutish, nasty and short, but the people currently being pursued by lions, bears or elephants (that admittedly aren't actually carnivorous but when frightened enough can trample a human pretty amusingly) were definitely living lives that were, right then, nastier, brutisher, and a lot, lot shorter. And, if elephants were involved, quite a bit flatter.

The novelty and/or shock value of the unfamiliar and potentially injurious is still there as an unacknowledged (because that would be _uncivilised_) but vital component. The circus is one of the few places where it's all right to point and laugh. In these more enlightened times, wild animals that have no place being kept domestically have been largely phased out, and the bloodshed is largely absent, give or take the odd animal keeper who gets mauled by his or her own charges. However, when that happens, it certainly counts as the highlight for many of the audience, even if they won't admit it out loud. It's a large part of why people watch the trapeze, the high wire, the acrobatics, the chainsaw juggler; we want to see you slip and fall, dislocate you dignity, or cut off your own arm.

Even 'children' 's circuses, which have largely had all the most amusing potential for medical mayhem bowdlerised away, can still offer this sort of entertainment. A school excursion to a circus may give kids an opportunity to see a strong man act, or acrobats, or performing animals, or bicycle stunts, but when they get back to school and are required to describe their favourite part of the excursion by drawing pictures or writing short stories about My Trip To The Circus, they will write 'One of the horses did a wee and it went for a long time and it splashed and it had a really big willy and one of the other horses sniffed it yuck gross', or draw a remarkably anatomically correct picture of said horse doing said wee (and possibly adding audience members running, swimming or surfing for the exits, if the child is particularly prone to exaggeration).

Given the reality that everyone likes a good giggle at something that is nasty, brutish and short (or, in the case of a horse doing a wee, long), it is something of a puzzle as to why dog acts remain so popular. They offer no real potential for gut-busting schadenfreude, although a clued-up dog trainer will incorporate an artificial measure of it by using a couple of 'failure' tricks, and maybe teaching one dog to leg-hump enthusiastically on command. What they offer is a view of dogs and humans, two species that co-evolved over thousands of years, working together.

Dogs have worked with humans as hunters, herders, guards, warriors, draft animals, and in later history, law enforcement, rescue and assistance. Wherever a dog has willingly done the bidding of a human, it would be crude to describe the relationship as master and servant, for that does not capture the eagerness of the servant to please, or the delight the master takes in praising a job well done. For a dog to work, there must be a close relationship between human and dog, not master and servant, but devoted companions of the same Pack. It is not too strong to use the word love.

We humans can only marvel at the dedication, teamwork and humility that dogs manage so effortlessly.

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"Why must I be at the base of the tower, you foolish humans?" demanded Michael. "I am eldest, Father's general and chosen successor! As the symbol of humility before God, I demand to be at the top!"

"I was His most dear, the Morningstar, brightest and most beloved of the Host, now raised once more into His sight!" insisted Lucifer. "I should be at the top! Surely even you flawed sons of Adam can see that?"

"I am the healer, the hope of frail mortal humanity!" yapped Raphael, spinning around on the spot a couple of times, "I have walked among them, offering succour and encouragement and the benevolent love and compassion of the Host to you disgusting squishy mud-monkeys! Profferers of pizza morsels excluded of course," he nodded to Sam, "But for this, I should be at the top!"

"I'm related to idiots," sighed Gabriel. "Come on, it's blatantly obvious that I'm the cutest! AND I can stand on my hind legs! What do you say, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, I get top billing, yeah?"

"We can just explain it to them," Sam muttered mutinously back at Dean, "We can just explain to them what the tricks entail, and then they can do them. Any other famous last words before you change your name to Cesar Milan?"

Dean glowered at the four yapping canines, hanging on to his fraying temper. "Look," he began through clenched teeth, "When you build a tower of anything of varying sizes, be it beer glasses, cheerleaders or dogs, you put the largest ones at the bottom, and the smallest ones at the top, or the whole thing falls over. Which means that you, Michael, are at the base of the tower, because none of the others want to be squashed by your relatively gigantic puggy ass, okay?"

"You are the most senior," Sam quickly cut in, "Dependable and reliable, so you are the foundation on which the whole thing relies. You are the strength and support. Raphael must be next, still close to the Earth, to symbolise his... healing benevolence. Gabriel has to be towards the top as Messenger of the Lord, who announced the coming of Christ and foretold his reascension, and Lucifer, who Fell but has been offered a chance to redeem himself, goes at the top, to demonstrate God's infinite love and forgiveness for all, if they will just allow Him to raise them from sin." He paused. "Plus, while you're here, you really do have to obey the laws of gravity like everybody else, and technically it's your Father's law." He looked hopeful.

The archpooches considered this explanation.

"Very well," nodded Michael, bracing his legs. "Raphael, please be careful where you place your feet."

"Nice going, Samsquatch," snickered Gabriel. "If only Father had had you to pull his angels into line."

"Shut up, Gabriel, you're next," humphed Sam.

"I am not certain that I can do this," whined Lucifer, looking at his brothers balanced one atop the other. "It seems a long way up from here."

"Of course you can!" insisted Dean. "You're more rat than dog. Rats can run up walls, so you can run up a dog stack."

Lucifer tried a couple of times, falling just short of making the distance.

"How's the Cirque du So Lame coming along?" asked Bobby, eyeing Lucifer's efforts dubiously as the Chihuaha backed away to take a longer run-up. He ran full tilt at his brothers, scrambled to the top – and promptly fell off the other side.

"Actually, that's pretty funny to watch," Bobby remarked, "You might want to have him try and fail a few times before he actually gets there. You'll need a gimmick, something that makes your act different."

Lucifer's little ears drooped, and Sam almost felt sorry for him.

They were interrupted by a car pulling into the yard. Sheriff Jody Mills got out and waved.

"Aha!" Bobby clapped his hands together happily, "Gentlemen, your wardrobe mistress is here!"

"Wardrobe mistress?" echoed the Winchesters.

"Bobby called me last night, and said you needed some help getting a dog circus act together for one of your jobs," she explained, hefting a sewing machine box out of the car as she eyed the aspiring troupe. "So, who do we have here?"

"Archangels," Bobby told her bluntly, "Like I told ya, sent here by their Father, to learn to behave 'emselves."

"The pug is Michael, he's a total kick-down-kiss-up asshole," Dean explained, "The French Bulldog is Raphael, the most arrogant asshole known to the cosmos, the Jack Russell is Gabriel, a coward and passive-aggressive asshole who likes dicking with other people's lives for the fun of it, and the rat with a collar is Lucifer, Lord of Hell, the most evil fucker in all of Creation and a complete asshole."

Jody handed him her machine, and hunkered down. "Oh, I think they're just adorable!" she smiled to the dogs as they clustered around her curiously. "Is Dean being mean to you?" she asked Lucifer, scratching him under the chin.

"Yes, yes he is, madam," Lucifer whuffed, his eyes half closing.

"Extremely mean," yipped Michael, pushing his head under her hand.

"He derides us and calls us names," whined Raphael, big brown eyes appealing for pats.

"Would it be okay if I shoved my nose into your crotch?" panted Gabriel.

Bobby sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he and the Winchesters seemed to be the only ones who could understand the archpooches.

"Aren't they friendly little things!" Jody went on. "Come on, let's get inside," she picked Lucifer up and snugged him into the crook of her arm, "And start measuring the stars up."

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"Where exactly did you learn to sew dog constumes?" Sam asked, as Jody ran the machine, Lucifer sitting in her lap.

"I used to make the calisthenics and school play costumes for my nieces," she explained. "My sister can't sew. After fitting squirming whining children out as bumble-bees, hula dancers or fairies, small dogs are easy. There you go," she tugged the small shiny vest onto Lucifer, "Trot around and make sure you don't trip over your tutu." Lucifer scrambled to obey. As soon as he'd moved, Gabriel leaped to take his spot.

"You next, huh?" she asked him, scratching his ears. "Okay, let's get you measured up."

"I'll roll over, and if you scratch my belly, I'll give you something to measure," he panted.

"Hey, how are you getting on with your suit?" Sam shouted up the stairs.

A crash and a cry of "Sonofabitch!" was the only reply.

"Er, you need some help up there, bro?" Sam asked tentatively.

"No, Sam, I do not need any help," Dean snarled back, "What I need is for you and Bobby to see what a lousy idea this is!"

"We need a gimmick," Sam argued, "Just like Bobby said, a hook, and I think this is it."

"You're so keen, you can wear the damned suit! Ow!" Dean yelled back.

"It won't fit me," Sam pointed out again, "Jody's brother-in-law was your height, not mine..."

"Come on down, son," instructed Bobby, "And we'll see if it needs adjustin'."

"If any of you laugh at me, I will end you," grumped Dean.

"Maybe she can sew his mouth shut," Sam muttered, sotto voce.

Jody was just measuring Gabriel for his tutu when Dean walked into the living room wearing the suit.

The dog suit.

He had big floppy ears, a long floppy tail, and a very, very pissed off expression.

Sam, Bobby and the four dogs began to laugh.

"Oh, God, Dean," Sam wiped his eyes, "That's... that's... priceless!"

"I've always thought of you as a guy who had a fondness for doggy style," grinned Bobby.

"I am suddenly grateful that I have not taken my human vessel!" Michael whuffed.

"Oh, Father!" yapped Lucifer in amusement, "He looks just as silly as a dog as we do, brothers!"

"Even more so!" yipped Raphael, spinning around on the spot.

"Plus, we're a whole lot cuter," panted Gabriel, tail wagging in amusement.

"I fucking hate you all," Dean growled.

"Of course, it's not finished yet," Jody commented, pulling a small cosmetic case from her sewing bag and approaching Dean. "There!" she said, satisifed, having coloured in the end of his nose black. "Much better! Now, come over here Dean," she instructed, "I need to measure you. Arms up!"

"Actually, if I have to wear it, it's a pretty good fit," Dean sighed with glum resignation, lifting his arms. "I don't think it needs alteration."

"I agree," Jody nodded, putting the measuring tape around his waist, "So I'm just measuring you for your tutu."

Fresh gales of hilarity erupted in the living room. Gabriel began to hump Jody's leg, and panted,

"If I can persuade George Clooney to let me use him as a vessel, will you marry me?"

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"Come on, Lucifer, third time's the charm!" encouraged Jody. Lucifer backed up, waggled his rump in the air, and launched like a small furry tutued missile at the waiting dog stack, where Dean, on hands and knees, had the other three archcanines balanced atop him.

"Run, Lucifer, run!" called Michael.

"Soar Heavenward, brother!" yipped Raphael.

"Shag dat ass, Luci!" ruffed Gabriel.

"Come on, you little asshole, some of us are getting cramp here, already," muttered Dean.

The speeding Chihuahua hit Dean's extended leg like a getaway car hitting an exit ramp, launched up the stack, tutu flying, scrabbled for purchase, and...

"You did it!" yelled Jody, as Lucifer found his feet and balanced precariously atop Gabriel, whose wagging tail threatened to dislodge him.

"I did it!' barked Lucifer, his own tail wagging furiously. "I did it!' In excitement, he stood up on his back legs and spun around on the spot.

"Be careful brother!" yapped Raphael, "Do not fall! You are small, and mortal!"

"Actually, that's a really good trick," commented Sam, "Can you do that again?"

"I can do it!" Lucifer trilled, spinning like a demented top, as his brothers barked encouragement.

"You know what would look really good?" suggested Bobby. "If you guys jump off Dean one at a time from the bottom, while Lucifer keeps spinning. Can you do that? Raphael, you'd have to sort of jump, give Michael a bit of clearance, then land on Dean... okay, well done, now you, Gabriel, do the same thing... good job! Now, watch your footing, Lucifer, while Gabriel jumps off..."

Finally, Lucifer stopped spinning and sat on his haunches on Dean's back, paused, then jumped off.

"Oh, you were all wonderful!" enthused Jody, hunkering down as the small dogs ran to her.

"Perhaps we could have more pats now?" suggested Michael, his head butting at her hand.

"I should very much like to try the belly rub that Gabriel enjoyed earlier," whuffed Lucifer, falling to the ground with his legs in the air.

"I should like to try a belly rub too!" confirmed Raphael, following suit.

"Belly rubs all round, barkeep!" barked Gabriel, falling to the ground with his brothers.

"Oh, you are just going to be the most adorable act ever!" she told them, rubbing at the proffered little doggy bellies, while the archcanines whuffed and squirmed with enjoyment.

"If I didn't know what arrogant assholes they are, I'd say they like you," chuckled Bobby.

"Yes, yes, we do," humphed Lucifer contentedly. "For a human, she is entirely tolerable."

"Hey, Jody," said Dean, "If I fall on the ground and put my legs in the air..."

"Don't even go there, mister," she told him, "You are not cute enough."

"Cute?" asked Dean in a hurt voice. "I'm not just cute, I'm adorable!"

"No, we are adorable," Raphael whuffed smugly. "You are ridiculous."

"That is your function in this act, to be the focus of derision," agreed Lucifer.

"But you were really good at it," Gabriel told him.

"You are very convincing as a human pretending to be a dog," added Michael loyally, feeling that he should say something in support of his vessel, "And I am sure that your brother can devise some ways to include you in our act that is within your capabilities."

"Woof woof, you make me feel so special," grumped Dean.

"I've got some more ideas here for tricks," Sam said, picking up a note pad. "There's one that I think will look really good, using a barrel. We can punch out the bottom of this old fuel drum, then paint it up. You take turns pushing it, or walking on top of it to roll it along, while one of you runs backwards and forwards through it. Then, Dean can have a turn, and get 'stuck', and you can all roll the barrel along with him spinning around inside it."

"Perhaps first of all, we could make a show of trying to push or pull him out of the barrel?" suggested Michael. "Since, for comic effect, he is supposed to be stuck."

"That's a wonderful idea, Michael!" beamed Sam, while Michael looked pleased with himself and Dean looked fratricidal. "We should practice having two of you 'push' and two of you 'pull'."

"Oh, I can't wait," muttered Dean, as Bobby chortled, and went to find a pair of metal snips to take the end off the fuel drum. "This is going to be a laugh a minute... oh, hey, look at this! You assholes need your nails clipped! One of you dicks has put a hole in my tutu!"

* * *

For Dean in his dog suit, I get a mental picture of Wilfred: http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** sbs**DOT** com**DOT** au/shows/wilfred

Reviews are the Belly Rubs with the Winchester Of Your Choice in the Circus Of Life! (tutus optional).


	12. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

What is motivation?

The answer to that is: it depends.

Much like teamwork, motivation was once something very straightforward: it was the internal impetus for an individual to attain what they wanted. Being chased by a sabre-tooth tiger was all the motivation needed to climb a tree. Feeling hungry was motivation enough to go and hunt down or dig up something edible. If a clan was feeling really motivated, they might go as far as chasing a sabre-tooth tiger away from a fresh kill (see teamwork), provided that fresh kill wasn't Granny Urgle, whose arthritis at the advanced age of thirty made it difficult for her to climb trees.

Alas, motivation, like teamwork, is no longer such a simple thing. In business or personal life, it is frequently deemed necessary to employ consultants to impart it.

This may be a 'Motivational Speaker' in a group scenario, whereby some has-been who was once paid enormous amounts of money and feted for a genetic legacy that enabled that person to chase a ball very fast, hit a ball very hard, or beat someone else nearly to death is brought in and paid enormous amounts of money only this time to talk about themselves and how they were once able to chase a ball very fast, or hit a ball, etc. This is deemed inspiring. How being inspired to chase a ball very fast is supposed to help the guys in Accounting balance the books more efficiently is not clear, but it's a thriving industry, so somebody who wears a suit, has a bigger office and doesn't work in Accounting must think it works. Nobody has yet thought to release a tiger, sabre-toothed or not, in a board meeting as a motivational exercise. Probably because tigers don't wear Armani and cannot handle laser pointers.

For those who do not wish to be inspired by others, there is a huge body of literature of 'inspiring' and 'motivational' books. For example, 'How To Feel Special And Avoid Going To Hell', released in a number of editions including the Torah, the Koran, the Bible, the Evangelion, the Brahma Sutras and the Avesta collection, has sold countless copies. It has been followed by other titles, which will inspire you to Win Friends And Influence People, Heal Your Life, deal with the fact that He's Just Not That Into You or Someone Moved Your Cheese, interact with humans from different planets (to wit, Mars or Venus), find out The Secret (which does make one wonder whether, after selling millions of copies, the title should really be changed to The Thing Everybody Knows Now), or even Unclutter Your Life, which includes a chapter on Your Uncluttered Colon.

The uninitiate might assume that such books would be fairly short. 'Be a decent person and deal fairly with your fellow humans.' 'Wash it with antiseptic, don't pick at it, and if it gets worse, don't use Dr Google, see an actual medical practitioner'. 'Find someone else who loves you back, otherwise in the long run you're better off single than forever waiting for somebody who isn't looking for the same relationship that you are'. 'Your life has been changing since you were born, if you haven't figured that out for yourself then realise it now'. 'Men and women are a strange and wonderfully variable lot; even if we all actually breathe the same atmosphere, after-dinner flatulence notwithstanding, don't expect your partner to be a carbon copy of you.' 'If you can try to think fewer negative thoughts and be more positive, you may not actually get anything tangible out of it, but you may just feel a bit happier about being you.' 'There's something cathartic about cleaning the useless junk out of your home. Also, eat a sensible diet with plenty of fibre.'

In reality, it's not that simple or rational. If it was, you could walk into a bookstore, and look for the rack of pamphlets stacked neatly under the heading 'The Bleeding Obvious for the Obviously Oblivious.' Alas, in these times of reluctance to analyse anyone's 'beliefs' too rationally in the fear of causing 'offence', what you will find is shelf after shelf of these books, in an array of shapes, sizes and colours, described as 'Self Help'.

And the one thing a book about motivating yourself or others needs (besides a photo of the author that looks as if the teeth have been coloured in with Liquid Paper), is a good supply of aphorisms. Throw in plenty of asinine aphorisms, idiot assertions, dopey exhortations and patronising platitudes and parables, mix in some pseudo-scientific jargon, come up with some buzzwords, and you've got The Next Big Thing in the genre.

This type of literature has its critics, but they cannot dispute that it works on some people. It may be the placebo effect, where people expect it to work and so convince themselves that it does. Or it may be that cheerful-sounding self-affirmation statements do work on a certain population who tend towards being naïve, unworldly, or just, frankly, a bit clueless.

For dogs, motivation is a lot less complicated. Tell them that they're doing a good job and flick them a small treat, they'll wag their tails in delight, and do whatever they can to get you do to that again. Partly they're praise junkies; partly they just can't help being wired to be cheerful.

Presumably, then, a naïve, unworldly or frankly a bit clueless mind in a dog body should kept away from motivational books, lest it explode.

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"Now, pirouette, very good!" Jody called choreography instructions as the tutued archpooches stood on their hind legs and spun, carefully making a circle around Dean. Two days on, with her assistance they were making remarkable progress. "That's fantastic, guys!"

"Where did you learn this stuff?" asked Bobby incredulously, marvelling at Jody's apparent hdden talent for training archangels in dog bodies.

"As a kid," Jody told him, watching the dancing dogs, "My mother decided I was going to learn the feminine traits of poise, grace and charm if it killed me, and the teacher, whom I'm pretty sure was possessed by the sugar plum fairy, had a whole list of affirmations guaranteed to rot the teeth of anyone other than a five-year-old girl. You guys look great! Arms fifth position, Dean! Demi-plie!"

"I am a light and fluffy meringue!" yipped Michael.

"I am a beautiful autumn leaf in the breeze!" whuffed Lucifer.

"I am as graceful as a swan!" yapped Raphael.

"Move over Nureyev!" panted Gabriel, "Here comes the awesome foursome!"

"Plus one," Michael added quickly, "You are doing very well, Dean," he added graciously.

"Thanks, coach," Dean muttered. '"I am a lithe, swaying reed," he added through clenched teeth as Jody frowned at him. "A lithe, swaying, homicidal reed..."

"If we could get them to do the pas de quatre from Swan Lake, the audience would go nuts for it," Jody said, watching the performance critically. "Dean, chin up! Don't slouch!"

"Thank you Cat Deeley," griped Dean.

"I can edit that into our soundtrack, no problem," offered Sam.

"And thank you, Judas," Dean added.

"Okay, let's take a break, and I'll explain what that will need," Jody called. The small dogs all immediately dropped back to all fours and rushed to Jody's feet for belly rubs.

"Oh how the mighty have fallen," grinned Bobby.

"Ignore him, brothers," sighed Lucifer happily, "He is jealous because he does not get belly rubs."

"Yes, more to be pitied than scorned," agreed Raphael. "Father would wish us to have compassion for those less favoured than are we."

"I don't suppose there are any liver snacks left?" asked Michael hopefully, rolling big brown eyes at Sam. He had become enamoured of the dog treats since he had been introduced to them.

"Yeah, sure," Sam fished a bag out of a pocket, "For a job well done."

"No, no, no!" yelped Dean, "Don't feed them those! You know what effect they have on these guys! Didn't the fumigation last night teach you anything?"

"It's no worse than you after a bacon cheeseburger with double onions," Sam tutted, handing Michael a morsel of dried liver, "And he's earned it. They all have. You guys really are doing well."

"Thank you," whuffed Michael. "You know, you may have been destined to be the vessel of the Son of Perdition, but," he dropped his voice in a conspiratorial way, "I always thought you were the reasonable one."

"Really? Oh. Er, well, thanks," stuttered Sam, "That's very... kind."

"I missed you after you left the Cage," nodded Michael. "While you were there, at least I could have an intelligent discussion that didn't involve talking about pornographic encounters with female acquaintances."

"Er, well, yeah, some things should stay private," Sam agreed. "I tell Dean that all the time."

"Exactly!" Michael told him. "If things had been different," he went on thoughtfully, "I would have been proud to take you as my vessel, Samuel Winchester."

"Oh, well, um, thank you. I think," replied Sam, handing over another liver treat.

"I think that you guys might be just about at a point where you can be pretty damned convincing as an act," Bobby opined later in the day, "It might be time to contact the circus."

"I'll set up an appointment," Sam said.

"I'll finish off your props," Bobby offered.

"There's a sharp bit in that barrel that needs filing down," commented Dean, "I got another hole in my tutu."

"We'll mend it," Jody reassured him, "But right now, let's see if we can work up the Cygnets' Dance from Swan Lake. Now, you four will have to stand close together, and scuttle along like that. Can you jump while you do it? Just like that! You are nimble, leaping gazelles! What are you?"

"We are nimble, leaping gazelles!" yipped the archcanines happily, scuttling back the other way.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" griped Dean.

"Technically, as a human? Pas de chat, at this point," Jody told him, demonstrating the step. "Cat jumps."

"You are a supple, athletic cat!" prompted Raphael, as Dean attempted to replicate the moves.

"Perhaps there is still a place in our act for an arthritic, epileptic frog?" suggested Lucifer encouragingly.

"But you are very good as a majestically lumbering elephant," Michael assured him.

"Don't give up your day job, Scooby Doo," grinned Gabriel.

In the end, Jody made a large 'butterfly net' from a broom handle, wire and tutu netting, and Dean's role was to chase the 'swans' around trying to catch them.

When the dancing dogs managed to make him spin around until he tripped over his own tail, he was adamant that he totally did it on purpose.

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Zeb Arbuckle had been born into the circus. His father's family had trained dogs and horses for several generations. His mother's family had been trapeze artists; he'd first swung on a trapeze as a toddler, clinging to her back on the practice rig like a baby monkey, shrieking in delight.

He was getting too old to do much performing anymore, although he still played in the band when he could, and did some clowning whenever he got the opportunity. Most circus people had more than one role, and well, clowning, it was for the kiddies, right, they loved it so much...

His main role now was behind the scenes as manager of Dingle Dongle Danglers Circus. He was secretary, treasurer, PR rep, concierge, horse doctor, psychologist, talent scout, tent maintenance specialist, gang boss, occasionally arbitrator (they were like a big, crazy, extended family, sure, but with a fire-breathing act living with a balloon-juggling act, there were bound to be disagreements from time to time) and, on one memorable occasion, obstetrician, when High Wire Hetty insisted on performing an encore even though she'd gone into labour, and it was just a mercy that Zeb insisted on having the safety nets rigged because otherwise that kid would've gone splat (on the upside, he'd bounced before he breathed, never mind crawled, and grew up to be the most talented trampolining artist Zeb had ever seen).

Losing Fritz and his dogs had been a blow; they were a crowd pleaser, but had to admit defeat in the face of advancing age and failing health. The young guy who'd called him out of the blue when they'd hit Sioux Falls, and asked to audition he and his brother's dogs, had taken him by surprise, but he'd agreed.

When he met them, his first thought was that they would be a lot more capable of helping with the rigging and the tent than old Fritz had been. His second thoughts were that something about them would have made him think 'knife-throwers' if he'd just met them. His third thoughts were that those assholes from the Boingo Brothers had sent them as some sort of joke, because the dogs that stuck close to them were not the usual Poodle crosses or working breeds known to do so well in circus, but more the kind of neurotic rat-dogs usually seen carried in bimbos' handbags. Well, except for the oversized Rottweiler.

"So, what's this act of yours?" he asked, playing the good-natured and slightly bemused old avuncular figure. "What does your Rottie do? Are they his props? Does he juggle them?"

"He's their bodyguard," Dean told him unsmilingly. As if to demonstrate the point, the large dog gently picked up the Chihuahua, snuggled it between its paws, and began to wash its ears.

"We would of course expect to audition," Sam told him smilingly, "They do some dancing, some acrobatics – it's probably just best if you see them in action."

"Well, okay," Zeb had agreed, sounding doubtful, "But I have to tell you, I'll be looking for something special. Frankly, I've never seen a Chihuahua who was capable of doing any trick other than sinking teeth into the hands of the unwary, or choking the occasional German Shepherd by getting stuck in its throat."

The smallest rat dog glared at him and growled. The Rottie whuffed reassuringly, and kept grooming his charge.

"Oh, they're special, all right," Dean nodded, as the Jack Russell spun in a circle and whuffed excitedly. "Not only can they dance and do acrobatics, they can be sniffer dogs too."

Zeb smiled indulgently. "Well, scent discrimination is an advanced obedience exercise, but it's not really visually very spectacular..."

"It's what they sniff out that's interesting," Dean smiled widely. "This little guy? He sniffs out porn. Show him, Gabriel."

Zeb's eyes bugged in horror as the terrier made a beeline for a certain battered packing box that looked much the same as all the other battered packing boxes...

The French Bulldog barked. "Oh, and the bat-eared dude? Raph sniffs out grass." The bulldog made his way directly to another unremarkable box.

When the Chihuahua huffed, Sam's eyes crossed, and he stifled a gasp, turning it into a cough.

"Really?" Dean's smile turned beaming. "El Paco here can sniff out ladies' underwear..."

"I think I'd love to see you audition!" yelped Zeb, "Right now!"

"Hey, it's cool," Dean reassured him, "It's not just cool, I think it's awesome! We travel a lot too, and I know that when I'm your age, I fully intend to still be doing the horizontal tango, or the vertical tango for that matter, whenever we stop some place where the women are warm, welcoming and willing..."

"We'll just get our props," Sam cut in, "That clear area behind the trucks, can we use that?"

"Er, sure," stuttered Zeb, "Go set yourselves up."

"Excellent!" grinned Dean. "You'll love the Swan Lake bit," he added.

"How the hell did you know he had that stuff stashed?" asked Sam as he dressed Gabriel in his vest and tutu.

"Er, hello, you do remember who you're talking to here?" Gabriel chuckled. "I could sniff out porn underwater!"

"We are Angels of the Lord," Michael told him, "Naturally, we are able to sniff out iniquity."

"Wow, you really do have something in common with Dean," Sam nodded.

"Hey, Sam, I've just had a great idea!" yipped Gabriel.

"If it involves incorporating underwear-sniffing into the act, forget it," Sam growled. Gabriel drooped. "Okay," Dean in his dog suit rolled the last prop, the barrel, into place. "Let's show this guy what you can do! What are you?"

"I am a light and fluffy meringue!" yipped Michael.

"I am a beautiful autumn leaf in the breeze!" whuffed Lucifer.

"I am as graceful as a swan!" yapped Raphael.

"I am sex in a tutu!" whuffed Gabriel.

"I am going to kill Castiel," muttered Dean, adjusting his ears, "Or at the very least, make him wear this suit."

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Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Auditioning For You in the Circus Of Life! (What act you'd like them to do is up to you. No, circuses do NOT have strippers...)


	13. Chapter 12

I'm back again; RL has been just ghastly, and the bunny went quiet, curse it, I hate it when a bunny clams up mid-story, miserable rodents...

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**CHAPTER TWELVE**

What is talent?

The answer to that is: it depends.

In some ways, talent is like pornography. It's easy to come up with a general definition, perhaps 'an aptitude for doing something' (which could also apply to pornography in certain instances), but that doesn't really capture what it is. It can be difficult to qualify, impossible to quantify, find manifestation in the most unexpected of ways. Like pornography, it's one of those things where you'll know it when you see it. And, like pornography, it can be used for good, for evil, or to gross out other people.

Talent can be as enormously spectacular as writing a Broadway hit musical, or as unobtrusive as an uncanny ability to calm an upset child (if you are a nurse who merely knows to send the clown-doctor out of the room, that doesn't count). It can be as lucrative as appearing sincere whilst convincing people to pour money into your investment scheme of dubious provenance, or as unprofitable as being able to put your hair up into a flawless bun in the kitchen while simultaneously looking for your car keys, shooing the dog out of the garbage bin and shouting at your children to hurry up. It can be as productive as knowing just when the grape harvest is perfect to be picked for next year's vintage, or as useless as being able to beat all-comers at Hungry Hungry Hippo every single time (if your opponents are routinely a couple of decades younger than you, it might be helpful to be able to calm an upset child).

Talents of varying degree, profitability or uselessness can exist within one individual. A talent for recognising and using patterns can manifest as abilities to understand and rebuild engines, hustle pool and practically-cheat at poker, and know exactly how to gross out your little brother. A talent for retaining, synthesising and extrapolating information can manifest as capacities to dig out obscure facts, figure out what questions to ask, and upbraid your big brother for some of his more disgusting erotic escapades years after he perpetrated them.

One person's talent is another person's perversion.

The one thing that consistently applies to talent is that, like pornography, it makes its manifestation look effortless, and inspires a certain proportion of those who see it to sigh 'I wish I could do that'.

Like pornography, it may also make a certain proportion of those who see it pull strange faces and ask, 'Why the hell would anybody _want _to do that? No, seriously, why? What for? And could you really do it without throwing up?'

Zeb knew about talent, though, and he knew he was looking at it.

Having come from a family that trained animals, such performances were often lost on him. Like one magician watching another perform, the 'magic' was largely attenuated by knowing how it was done. He could appreciate the effort and skill that went into teach dogs what looked like complex behaviours, but the 'wow' factor that held the audience's attention, as they watched dogs doing tricks they couldn't begin to imagine their own pets doing, was not there.

The thing was, in this case, he had no idea how Sam and Dean were doing it.

Having one of the guys as part of the act was not only funny – and Dean had a natural aptitude for clowning, which Zeb made a mental note of – but presumably also gave them the opportunity to direct the dogs from within the action as well as from outside. Clever. But... as carefully as he watched, he couldn't see _how_ they were doing it. The best trained dogs took very subtle cues from barely-there gestures and a few words, but the Winchesters' dogs seemed to work with no direction at all.

The thing with the barrel, for instance. One dog walks on it, one dog pushes it, and the others run back and forth through it, a real crowd pleaser, but not that difficult to teach. Except these dogs seemed to... improvise.

All hiding in the barrel and refusing to come out, okay, but then coming out one by one and running around behind Dean and biting his tail then heading back in, how did they do that? Then three of them getting into the barrel to propel it by running like mice in a wheel, while the Chihuahua ran along side it and apparently barked directions, while Sam turned his back in bemusement and facepalmed, and chasing the guy in the dog suit with it until they knocked his feet out from under him, how the hell did they teach that? And how did the dogs know where to steer it?

The dancing, then, that was sheer brilliance. The four of them stood on their hind legs, and spun, circled and jumped in perfect unison, in time to the music. The Swan Lake piece was inspired.

He had to admit himself impressed. They had seriously hit the jackpot with their star performer, the Chihuahua – the little animal definitely had that intangible quality, the It factor. He played to the crowd, and barked and whuffed at his co-performers as if he was the one directing the action. A small crowd of the other circus performers had gathered to watch – word that fresh meat was auditioning got out quickly – and as the Chihuahua lined himself up for a third try at making the top of the dog pyramid, they were clapping and cheering him on. They went wild when he made it and pirouetted in triumph.

As the Winchesters' act finished, an enthusiastic round of applause went up. After taking some graceful bows, the four dogs rushed to members of their impromptu audience and threw themselves to the ground, legs in the air, in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub. After a moment's thought, Dean approached Cindy, who had obviously been on the trapeze practice rig, and did the same thing.

"That was... amazing," Zeb said to Sam, "I've never seen dogs work so independently before."

"Oh, it just comes naturally to them," Sam smiled, "They're happiest working without the humans getting in their way."

"Well, they look like they're making themselves right at home," Zeb commented. Sam had to agree: Gabriel was being cooed over by three young ladies in leotards, Michael was wagging his tail as an older lady bent to rub his belly, Raphael was having his ears scratched by a man wearing wire walkers' slippers, and Lucifer was being cuddled and praised by a large, muscular man. "That little guy is star material. I'd be happy to give you a trial run while we're in Sioux Falls, then you can decide whether you want to come with us."

"Thank you, Zeb," smiled Sam, "That would be great. Hey, guys, we got ourselves a job!"

"Can't talk now, Sammy," grinned Dean, as the laughing young woman bent to scratch his belly, "I'm getting some praise for a job well done!"

"Just don't cock your leg on anybody's shoe," Sam humphed at him. "And don't you dare hump anybody's leg."

The archpooches were reluctant to leave their adoring fans, especially Lucifer, who seemed very content to be carried around by the man whom Zeb introduced as The Amazing Alfonso, the strongman.

"Bravo, bravo!" the large man enthused, kissing Lucifer flamboyantly, "Il Divo, cosi bravi, cosi bello, stupendo!"

"You want to be careful there, Alf," Dean cautioned him, "You can get bubonic plague from rats."

"Well, we're in," Sam told them, as Alfonso reluctantly handed Lucifer back (Italian being so closely descended from Latin, Sam was pretty sure that Alfonso had lectured them on making sure the Chichuahua was adequately fed, because the poor little thing looked far too skinny for his liking), "So people will think it's perfectly natural for us to wander around and introduce ourselves."

"I've already made a start," Dean grinned, "I'm going to meet up with Cindy the trapeze artist after tonight's show..."

The archcanines seemed to be elated by the experience.

"They... venerated us," Raphael said in wonder, "They cheered for us."

"They delighted in our presence, and made a joyful noise unto us," Michael declared happily.

"That was... extraordinary," observed Lucifer, "They... adored us."

"Well, what's not to adore?" grinned Gabriel. "We're cuter than the contestants at a toddler beauty pageant, and we don't have the off-key singing and the creepy inch-thick make-up and the overweight mutton-dressed-as-lamb mothers who are just living out their own thwarted dreams by ruining childhood for their daughters! Plus, we're considerably more talented," he added. "Of course they love us! In fact, as soon as Dad lets us out of these dog suits, I may just swing by to check out on those lovely young ladies. They're sisters, you know, and they have very talented hands. I wonder if they rub anything besides doggy bellies..."

"What I had in mind was work-related," Sam frowned, with a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often) that took in both Dean and Gabriel. "We're here to track down whoever's killing people and taking chunks of their lungs, remember? Zeb says there's a trailer we can use, so we can get the dogs settled in, then go start being neighbourly..."

"Perhaps we could look around also?" suggested Michael. "We are, after all, archangels, and able to detect iniquity."

"Nobody would suspect that we were anything other than dogs," nodded Raphael. "We could investigate with impunity, without arousing suspicion."

"We would be welcomed," grinned Gabriel, "Our public loved us!"

"I don't know," Sam sounded doubtful.

"We could take Jimi with us," Lucifer reassured him. "Our bodyguard, remember? He won't let anything happen to us."

"Yeah, but will he stop you happening to anybody?" asked Dean suspiciously.

"They might have a point, bro," Sam conceded, "And according to Cas, this is what their Father wants them to do." He turned to address the dogs. "Okay, go have a sniff around. Be careful, though. Try to act as doglike as you can. Michael, keep everybody together. Raphael, don't let anybody do anything dangerous. And if anyone starts to get suspicious about you being out and about by yourselves, Lucifer, you do the big brown eyes thing until they go 'Awwwww', okay?"

"What about me?" demanded Gabriel.

"Oh, yeah," Sam went on, "You three, keep an eye on your horny brother and keep him out of trouble. Get Jimi to grab him and wash him if he starts to act too dirty." As if reading his Second's mind, Jimi picked Gabriel up carefully, and then began to wash his ears as the Jack Russell Terrier yapped irritably.

"We will keep him from transgression," Michael promised, bending a stern eye on Gabriel.

"Although it is not easy," Raphael added. "Even as a fledgling, Gabriel had a talent for getting into mischief."

"Indeed," sniffed Lucifer, "And watching over a younger brother to keep him safe from himself can be a most vexing task."

"I hear you there," nodded Dean.

"Younger brothers can be so trying," Lucifer stared pointedly at Gabriel, "Especially when they seem determined to do things that will irritate Father."

"Tell me about it," Dean sighed.

"For example, I clearly remember an instance in which he had been instructed directly by Father Himself that he was _not_ to interfere with the emergence of multi-cellular organisms on Earth, but he messed with deep sea fishes until he got an Angler Fish, all just so he could take it to Uriel, with whom he was quarrelling, and say, look, I found something even uglier than you..."

"Sounds like the time Sam decided to try to save us some money by instigating an occult ammo-breeding scheme," Dean related, "Which ended with two of the guns trying to have sex and getting stuck together – if I hadn't had made a friend at school whose dad was a gunsmith, Dad would've skinned us both alive if he'd found out."

"Then there was the incident with his trumpet," Lucifer went on, "Gabriel was supposed to practise in the Garden, where he would not disturb anyone, but he decided that the best place to have a first try with his horn was in Father's throne room, and all the windows shattered."

"Soccer practice," Dean said gloomily, "Sam insisted he needed more practice so he could make the school team, and I told him to wait until it stopped raining so he could go outside, but he didn't, and he put the damned ball right through the TV in this crappy apartment we were staying in."

"I overwrought my Grace putting the windows back together," Lucifer related, "And the effort I had to put forth in charming the Seraphim so that they wouldn't complain to Father..."

"I had to give up two really hot dates to spend a couple of nights sneaking into bars to hustle pool to replace the TV," Dean commiserated, "And I had to sweet-talk the landlady into not telling Dad. She was seriously ugly – she had a beard, I'm not kidding – and she kept wanting to hug me..."

"And let us not forget the utter disaster of his fascination with asteroids," Lucifer rolled his eyes, "It's just a phase he's going through, said Father, you were just the same with volcanoes at his age, just don't let him do anything rash, and then he gave me the slip, and the next thing we know, there's the most appalling explosion, and three-quarters of the species on Earth are extinct, including all those great big really interesting lizards. I thought that Father was going to Expel us both on the spot."

"Oh, God, don't talk to me about explosions," Dean griped, "Sam won a chemistry set in his first year of junior high, and it was all fun and games until he constructed the Winchester Patented Anti-Wendigo Device – thankfully we had most of our gear in the car when it detonated and blew up the cabin, a shed, a derelict truck and a decent chunk of national park. I don't think either of us could sit down for a week after that..."

"You said it was a really cool explosion, Dean," accused Sam.

"So did you, Lucifer," snapped Gabriel.

"It got the wendigo too," grumped Sam sullenly.

"Dad would've had to do something about those great big therapods anyway, they kept eating the mammals," Gabriel whined.

"Big brothers suck," muttered Sam.

"Amen," agreed Gabriel.

"And baby brothers are whiny little bitches," Dean said dismissively, "But if we're going to do any casing of the place, the sooner we start, the sooner we might find something. So, Sam, you go that way, I'll go this way, and you guys, start in the middle. Stay together, and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, Mom," drawled Gabriel with a roll of his eyes, "You want us to make sure we're wearing clean underwear too, in case we get hit by a bus?" Dean flipped him off. "Well, let's make a start," he shrugged to his brothers. "Where will we go? I got a feeling that Deano will want to call first dibs on the acrobat sisters, more's the pity."

"I have been charged with keeping us together," Michael intoned, "And I think perhaps we could start with the lady who trains the horses. She may be more receptive to being approached by animals, and she is, incidentally, most capable at belly rubbing."

"I believe we should start by visiting Alfonso," Lucifer cut in, "He showed a most gratifying adoration and attentiveness. He also offered to feed me meatballs, as he believes I look too thin."

Michael was on the verge of agreeing to Lucifer's suggestion, as a likelihood of meatballs was a very good reason to do anything, when Raphael's breath suddenly caught.

"Brothers!" he interrupted urgently, "Brothers! I believe we should start... over there."

They followed his line of sight.

A row of horses stood, peaceably tethered, nose to tail and flicking flies away from each others' faces.

And at the end of the row...

Stood a donkey.

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Reviews inspire the plot bunny to speak up. They do, trooly rooly *hint hint pathetic hint*.

Plus, Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Showing Off An Unexpected Talent For You On The Sofa/Kitchen Table/Crash Mat/Trapeze Of Life! (chocolate sauce, as ever, optional).


	14. Chapter 13

Fanficnet has been At It Again, haven't they - the 'REVIEW' button has turned facebook blue, and mousing over it will give you a typing cursor rather than a pointer. So you can still send reviews... 'Tis wonderful to see so many newish Denizens, but I find myself missing the older ones. *sniff sniff* Some of them are the founding members of the DDD&SSS. We can only hope that Real Life hasn't snuck up behind them and whacked them with the Unpleasantly Solid Giant Parsnip Of Mundane Reality.

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**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

What is wisdom?

The answer to that is: it depends.

Historically, a certain school of thought believed that wisdom was to be found in individuals who eschewed the material comforts and gratifications of this life, instead maybe living in a cave upon simple fare and wearing the same garment and spending one's life contemplating the nature of the universe. And indeed, under such circumstances, gaining a certain amount of knowledge, perhaps about the dampness of caves, the boringness of millet gruel and the draftiness of robes would be unavoidable, as would a certain aura of pungent odour. There might be small compensation found in having fun with any earnest would-be seeker of wisdom who sought out such a person. "The meaning of life? The meaning of life is... modest but comfortable cushions. They keep the damp off your robes, stop your bum going numb, and stave of haemorrhoids. No, really, that's it. Cushions. No, fulfilment and spiritual nourishment have nothing to do with it. You don't get those until you get the cushion thing sorted out. Cushions are the first essential step on the path to enlightenment. Trust me on this. Hey, who's the wise hermit, here? Fine, you young whippersnapper, tell you what, we'll swap places, you spend the next decade sitting here fielding stupid questions from fatuous idiots, then you tell me that the universe does not revolve around having a small, comfortable cushion to hand at all times..."

In more modern times, those deemed wise are more likely to be found wearing suits, writing books (see 'Motivation') and imparting their wisdom at seminars for considerable sums of money. Whether they are wise may be debated, but there is no arguing that they are, at least, as cunning as shithouse rats. Any wisdom gained has little to do with anything the speakers might say – if a participant does learn something as simple as 'The world is full of people who are very clever at separating the gullible from their money', then the exercise has been an effective, if possibly very expensive, lesson.

That's the problem, really. People might claim they want to learn from the wisdom of others, but really, wisdom comes from making your own mistakes. Other people's mistakes are funny; it's your own that are really educational. Just watch a 'Funniest Home Videos' show sometime. If we really were capable of learning from others' mistakes, there would be no segment showing endless variations on a theme, such as 'Man getting hit in the balls by small child while he's trying to teach said child to kick a ball'.

The sort of wisdom that might be vaguely useful tends to come with age and experience, which is a pity, because it seems to work such that individuals don't have it when they need it, and by the time they develop it, they've reached a point in life where it's not as useful as it would have been when they didn't have it. A bit like offers of credit from your bank.

Wisdom comes with experience. That's why elderly people have wrinkles. It's not just because they're old, it's because they spend so much time laughing at everybody who's younger than they are. The older you get, the more naïve young idiots there are to laugh at. Life becomes one endless episode of 'Funniest Home Videos', but without the annoying female host with the forced laugh and the liquid-papered teeth and the trowelled-on make-up and the bust hanging out of her totally-inappropriate-for-this-time-slot dress. Seriously, they find you hilarious. They are laughing at you. It's just that people who are old today were brought up to keep themselves nice, and they try not to do it out loud, out of politeness.

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Jenny stood contentedly by her companions, dozing in the late sun, enjoying the feeling of it warming her greying coat. They had arrived at a new place, and some of the younger horses had been excited and unsettled by the new sounds and scents, but her calm, unflappable presence had reassured them, and now they were all standing contentedly together, enjoying the sunshine.

In her long life, she'd had many 'jobs', but the current one, an honourable retirement really, as companion to Dingle Dongle Danglers' horses, was the least onerous. She was fed, cared for, even spoiled a little, and spent her days contentedly watching the world go by. Before shows, she would be there to greet the patrons, who were usually generous with their pats, especially the children, many of whom had never seen a donkey before. Not only were human children generous with their pats and keen to hug her, they were generous with their snacks, too, and she was particularly fond of cotton candy; it made her happy to see their little faces giggle as she carefully snurfled up the sticky globs from a small outstretched hand.

She noticed the dogs watching her, four small ones and a very large one. She had seen many dogs, some of which had not ever seen a donkey either, but rather than bark a frenzied query or an overenthusiastic greeting, these small four animals seemed to be content to gaze at her from a distance. Jenny knew she had nothing to fear; the trainers' dogs would come to her rescue immediately at the first sign of any threat, and she might be old, but she still knew how to kick like, well, kick like a mule...

These dogs didn't give any indication of offering her menace, though. The small ones approached calmly, as the large one lay and watched good-naturedly, and sat before her.

_Greetings, She-Ass, beloved of our Heavenly Father,_ one of them greeted her politely.

_Good day, Venerable One_, said another.

_May our Father's blessings be upon you, who are most pleasing to Him,_ said the third deferentially.

_Hey there, grandma,_ sighed the fourth, _Don't mind these guys, do me a favour, and just humour them._

_Hello,_ Jenny greeted them, a little taken aback to be greeted so respectfully. _Are you new here?_

The smallest dog seemed to consider this. _Yes,_ he answered finally, _We are... new. To all this._

_We are ignorant,_ added the largest dog, _And should not be too proud to admit it._

_But we are eager to learn,_ the French Bulldog wagged his tail, _And would be grateful for any wisdom that you would vouchsafe._

_Goodness me,_ replied Jenny. _Well, I suppose I have been with the circus for quite a long time, so maybe I can help. What would you like to know?_

Raphael gasped. _She invites our questions!_ He mused in wonder, _Such generosity with her knowledge!_

_Charity is a Virtue,_ Michael smiled, _No wonder she is beloved of Father._

_If only He had been so open to questions,_ sighed Lucifer a little wistfully. _Please, Wise One, may we speak with you?_

_Oh, I don't know if I'm particularly wise,_ Jenny whickered in amusement, _But I have been here for quite some time, and I will tell you what I can._

_Well, why don't I leave you guys with Oprah here,_ Gabriel suggested breezily, as he caught a much more interesting scent and turned to see two other dogs silently watching them, _And I'll go mingle with the other locals?_ His brothers' rapt attention was on the elderly donkey, so he slipped quietly from them, and sauntered over to where the two Dobermans kept a silent but alert watch on proceedings.

_Hey there, ladies,_ he whuffed happily, _I'm Gabriel, and I'm betting that two attractive bitches like yourselves have better things to do than sit around and ask the donkey questions._

_I am Lursa,_ rumbled one.

_I am B'Etor,_ rumbled the other.

_This herd are our charges,_ Lursa told him.

_We keep watch when strangers approach,_ B'Etor added gruffly.

_Well, I'll grant you, my brothers are strange all right,_ Gabriel snuffled with amusement, _But I think you can see for yourselves that they're not interested in bothering your charges. They seek wisdom at the feet of the donkey. The dumb asses quizzing the smart ass. So, when do you two come off duty?_

_This herd are our charges,_ Lursa repeated, her lip curling slightly.

_Right, right,_ Gabriel grinned, _And I'll bet you do a magnificent job of protecting them. I mean, you are a couple of magnificent ladies. Do you work out?_

_Last week we put a Ridgeback to flight,_ B'Etor told him with a satisfied humph. _Such exertion is enjoyable._

_And the results show, too,_ Gabriel panted, _Because your asses are definitely finer than the one my brothers are currently worshiping. So, what's say we take a little stroll, you show me around? I know I'll feel safe with two such attractive Amazons flanking me._

_This herd are our charges,_ Lursa growled.

_Our duty is here,_ confirmed B'Etor, Strangers are present.

_Oh, come on, look at them!_ wheedled Gabriel, _They couldn't maul their way out of a paper bag! The only thing Raph is likely to do is get your donkey soggy by kissing her feet! See the big dopey looking guy over there? He flipped an ear in Jimi's direction. He's their nursemaid. He has specific instructions not to let them happen to anybody. Hey, Jimi my man, come over here and tell these ladies there's nothing to worry about with Larry Curly and Mo there!_

With a glance at the archdogs clustered around Jenny's feet, Jimi trotted over to where Gabriel was chatting with the Dobermans. _Yo, Jimster,_ Gabriel whuffed, _These gorgeous creatures are Lursa and B'Etor, and we'll be taking a stroll, so if you could do these girls a favour and make sure those archidiots don't bore that donkey to death, I'm sure we'd be very grateful..._

_I am Jimi, I am Alpha,_ Jimi announced equably, stating a fact rather than making a boast, as Lursa and B'Etor reached up to sniff at his muzzle.

_He sure is,_ nodded Gabriel, _So, ladies, perhaps we could start at the nearest snacks stand, and put these adorable big brown eyes to good use, first cotton candy stick is on me..._

_A dog of the Blood!_ yipped Lursa, licking at Jimi's face in greeting.

_A dog of the Hunt!_ B'Etor joined her sister.

_Yes, yes, he's a Hunters' bitch,_ Gabriel yapped impatiently, _He keeps those two chuckleheads alive, he can keep your herd safe from anything short of direct meteor strike, so if you'd like to go..._

_You are Guardians,_ Jimi observed, returning the bitches' greetings, making them wag their tails happily.

_This herd are our charges,_ Lursa informed him.

_This pack are mine,_ Jimi told her, _We can watch together._

_That would please us,_ whuffed B'Etor contentedly, as Jimi and the two Dobermans lay down and slouched together companionably.

_Hey! Hey!_ yapped Gabriel irritably. _Find your own date, you musclehead!_ In a fit of pique, Gabriel jumped onto Jimi's back, and nipped at him. _These are mine! What about our walk, ladies?_

Lursa fixed Gabriel with a stony glare. _He is Alpha,_ she stated.

B'Etor glared at him down the length of her well-bred nose. _And you are... not._ She turned a disdainful look to the terrier. _Don't look now, Jimi,_ She intoned in sultry tones, resting her head across Jimi's back, _But you have picked up the biggest, most annoying flea I have ever seen..._

_I would be please to crush it for you,_ Lursa rumbled sweetly.

_Fine. Fine,_ grumbled Gabriel, jumping down and snapping in annoyance, _The cheerleaders want to hang out with the jock. Why doesn't that surprise me. When you want me, I'll be hanging with my bros. Dicks before chicks._ He trotted back towards where his brothers sat with Jenny. _So, if you guys have finished pestering this poor animal, perhaps we could go and..._

_Wise One, _Raphael began hesitantly, _What of... bathing?_

Jenny the donkey looked thoughtful. _In my experience, it is unpleasant, but sometimes unavoidable, _she told them, _There is a temptation to kick and bite, but that just prolongs the experience, so while I don't like it, I put up with it as best I can, and think of the candy floss at the end._

_Endurance of suffering, and forbearance of sin, in anticipation of righteous reward for virtuous behaviour, _marvelled Michael. _No wonder donkeys are beloved of Father._

_Such profound insights, expressed so simply, _mused Raphael, _We will need to meditate on this, brothers._

_Humans could learn from donkeys, _nodded Lucifer.

_As could we all, brothers,_ pronounced Michael, and the others whuffed their agreement.

_Well, you've got the whole cult thing happening,_ Gabriel muttered to himself, _Just stay away from the Kool-Aid. I'll just go by myself, and I have no intention of sharing any goodies I manage to schmooze..._

He was about to trot off following his nose to the nearest snack stand, when he was gently but firmly seized by the scruff, plonked down between Jimi's front paws, and washed.

_Great, _he sighed, _There better be candy floss after this, J-Man._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam looked at his watch. Dean would be wanting to head out to find something to eat soon, and they'd want to be back in time to get ready for their debut performance. He wasn't sure if he'd eat anything: he'd spoken to numerous circus performers, and every single meeting seemed to involve a lady of at least middle age who'd insisted that he eat something. The Amazing Alfonso had been disappointed that Lucifer, or Il Divo as Alfonso insisted on calling him, was not with Sam, but had ushered him into the trailer and inflicted Italian hospitality on him. His grandmother, a fearsome elderly lady in a black dress and with a beard that would rival Bobby's had insisted that he sit down and eat something, then sent him on his way stuffed with the most marvellous linguini marinara he'd ever eaten, with a doggy bag – well, it was more of a doggy sack, really – for Il Divo.

After that, the wire walkers, a middle-aged couple, had welcomed him and plied him with tea and cupcakes. The mother of the family of jugglers had served him coffee and a large piece of pie. The stunt cyclists had been very friendly, insisting that he share a pizza with them, so that by the time he arrived back at the horse trainers' trailer, he felt about thirty pounds heavier and as though he might detonate if startled.

He was bemused to see Jimi sitting companionably with two Dobermans, with Gabriel snuggled in resignation between his paws, whilst the other three seemed to be... well, communing with an elderly donkey.

"Er, hey guys," he called to them, "Perhaps you shouldn't be annoying the other animals."

"They're not annoying, they're worshiping," griped Gabriel despondently. "And Conan here is hogging the hot bitches."

"Okaaaaay," Sam replied, glad that for the moment Dean wasn't around to make an ass-worship joke. Speaking of Dean... "Have any of you seen Dean?"

"You want my guess, I'm betting he didn't make it past Cindy's tent," Gabriel offered, sitting up and cocking an ear. "In fact," he went on, "There are some very interesting noises coming from that direction."

Sam groaned. He really, really didn't want to go looking for his brother if his brother was enjoying the company of an athletic and flexible young lady.

Reluctantly, he made his way to the tent that the dogs insisted he was in. He told himself that he was being silly; after all, Cindy was a trapeze artist. Trapeze artists dangled from trapezes. It wasn't as if his brother could really do anything... frisky... could he?

He approached the tent, ready to call his brother's name, when he heard voices from inside.

"You know, I've always wanted to try this," he heard Dean say.

There was some scuffling, some murmuring, some giggling, then a creak of rigging, then...

"Oh... my... God!" gasped a young woman's voice. "That's... that's..."

"Awesome?" Dean breathed. The rigging creaked again. "Ohhh yeah, definitely awesome."

"Do that again!" said the woman's voice.

_creak creak_

"Are you sure? OooooOOOOoooh," gasped Dean. "We don't want to faaaAAAAAAll."

_creak creak_

"Yes! Yes!" she insisted, "It's okay, the net is rigged to take two!"

Sam's face drained as he turned away from the tent. "Okay guys," he announced faintly, "We are going to head back to our trailer now, where you will rest up before our performance, while I climb into a vat of mindbleach."

"Gives the idea of a swingers' club a whole new context, yeah?" suggested Gabriel brightly.

"Shut up, Gabriel," muttered Sam through clenched teeth.

"Hey, college boy, if they're using ropes but not actually tying each other up, does that count as bondage?"

"Shut up, Gabriel."

"Look on the bright side, Sam. The net was rigged for two, so at least we know he's practising safe sex..."

"I hate you."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester (Or Angel If You Like Them) Of Your Choice Joining You For Bouncy Times On The Safety Net of Life!


	15. Chapter 14

**Dean:** This is demeaning!

**Lampito:** It's part of the story.

**Dean:** It's humiliating!

**Lampito: **You're decently covered, and it's practically an anti-fangirl suit.

**Dean:** Get me out of this thing! Right now!

**Lampito:** Oh, all right, if it will stop you whining.

*the fickriter taps at the keyboard*

**Dean:** AAAAAARGH!

*he runs away and hides*

**Sam (doing a double take):** Did I just see Dean run through here... wearing nothing but his tutu?

**Lampito:** It was his idea. He's a dirty fecker.

**Gabriel:** *sniff sniff* Can I smell... fangirls?

**Dean:** AAAAAAARGH *he runs away again*

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

What is performance?

The answer to that is: It depends.

The purpose of performance will lie somewhere on the continuum between 'entertainment' and 'deception'; and the audience must suspend disbelief in order to be entertained. When watching opera, they must accept that fat women are dying of tuberculosis, fat men are young, battle-hardened soldiers or mythical warrior heroes, a person can be completely disguised by a tiny mask that barely covers their eyebrows and the closer to death someone is, the louder and higher they can sing. When watching television, they must accept that the world is largely populated by thin Americans with impossibly good teeth and gymnastically satisfying sex lives. When watching a movie, they must accept that penguins can sing and dance, neurotic sabre-toothed squirrels once co-existed with mammoths, Austrian bodybuilders can survive being beaten up by seven-foot aliens then being almost at ground zero of a tactical nuke, a chubby cook can defeat an entire shipload of bad guys without even mussing up his carefully coiffed pigtail, explosions in space are spectacularly loud, sharks are made of rubber and eat aircraft, and what an attractive woman really wants in a partner is a man at least twenty years her senior.

The Winchesters had been performing as an integral part of Hunting since they were children. Dean's first role, in which he excelled, was 'well-adjusted boy whose family does not warrant the attention of teachers, neighbours or CPS'. Sam's first role was 'adorable little munchkin who bursts into tears in a convenience store after accidentally breaking something spectacularly messy, perhaps a bottle of milk, and needs comforting from the nearest adult present'. Dean would then play the role of apologetic older brother, who would the sniffling youngster back to their father, who was just outside – but only after he'd taken advantage of the distraction to shove several grocery items inside his coat. Their roles had expanded as they grew, and included FBI agents, EPA inspectors, CDC inspectors, clergy, utilities servicemen, lifesavers, underwear model (Dean), life model (Sam), and, on one memorable occasion, relationship therapist; Sam was supposed to take that particular role but Dean had to fill in for him at the last minute – for a week after the Winchesters left town, the practice received bunches of flowers, boxes of chocolates and multiple notes from happy couples declaring that their sex lives were now gymnastically satisfying.

At the circus, the Winchesters were going to have to perform as an actual entertainment act, which they didn't do very often. Well, there had been Sam's turn as a RuPaul impersonator (he won the contest) and Dean's turn as a male stripper (where Sam only told him three seconds before he pushed him out on stage to the opening bars of Nine Inch Nails' 'Closer' that the audience was male – the fact that he finished the night with several hundred in tips, a dozen phone numbers and two proposals of marriage tucked into his briefs didn't improve his temper afterwards.) Sam found himself feeling a little nervous as they watched the other acts from the sidelines.

"Any one of these acts could be using a levitation spell," he noted.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, as the trapeze artists pulled off a particularly adept move, "They all seem to have an element of defying gravity. Hey, I wonder if Cindy could do that if we..."

"Maybe we need to try a more basic approach," Sam swallowed and wiped his palms on his pants, "Maybe get the dogs to sniff for offal."

Dean's big brother radar went off. "You okay, bro?" he asked. "You're not getting performance anxiety, are you? Because if we were talking about getting you laid, I'd understand, what with you being so out of practice and all, but this isn't that sort of performance..."

"Jerk. I'm fine," Sam tried to smile, "Just a bit nervous, I guess, just a bit, you know..." he swallowed again, "At the circus, with all the circus acts..." In the face of Dean's Big Brother Is Here To Save You ambiance, he wilted. "I can smell them, I swear, I can smell them, just because we haven't seen them yet doesn't mean they're not here, it's a damned circus for fuck's sake..."

"Sam," Dean said firmly, "Stop gibbering. The clowns are just people, just people in stupid clothes, and stupid make-up, and stupid oversized shoes, and they think they're funny. We're on a job here, baby bro, so you gotta man up, and ignore the clowns." He paused thoughtfully. "You know how they say that if you're nervous when you have to give a speech, talk in front of an audience, you should picture the audience in their underwear?" he said.

"Er, yeah, yeah, I've heard that one," Sam nodded as he shuddered, "Although for me, I usually just pictured everybody staring at a simple trig problem and scratching their heads..."

"Well, what you gotta do," Dean went on, "Is imagine those stupid clowns tripping over their stupid long shoes, and falling flat on their stupid red noses."

Sam looked bemused. "But they do that anyway," he pointed out.

"All right, all right, then, what you gotta do," Doctor Dean was not to be put off in his therapy prescription, "What you gotta do is, you gotta imagine that stupid clown car, you know, the tiny car that the midget clowns fit into, you gotta imagine that getting T-boned by a semi."

"T-boned by a semi?" echoed Sam doubtfully.

"Totally," asserted Dean firmly. "You look at those clowns, and you imagine them, in their stupid car, getting T-boned, and getting completely squashed, and they stop laughing and start screaming pretty damned quickly, and they're all lying there, well, what's left of 'em, and they're squashed, and squishy, and bleeding, and dying, and there's bones sticking out, and a big red honky nose in a pool of blood, and you think, haha, stupid clowns, you don't look so scary, nothing that flat could possibly look scary, who's laughing now assholes?"

"Okaaaaay," Sam replied dubiously, making a mental note not ever to allow Dean to pose as a phobia therapist, "I'll imagine mangled, screaming, dying clowns."

"With lots of blood," prompted Dean.

"Yeah, totally, lots of blood," nodded Sam.

"Attaboy!" grinned Dean, clapping him on the back. "Wow, that swinging upside down thing, she's good. It makes all the blood rush to your head, if you're not used to it, which was a bit weird, but in another way it was also kinda..."

"So, you boys ready?" asked Zeb, rescuing Sam from being regaled with another one of Dean's blow-by-blow – no pun intended, unfortunately, he thought – descriptions of one of his erotic encounters.

"Locked and loaded," beamed Dean, "And ready to amaze the audience. Right guys?"

At his feet the four archpooches jumped and yipped.

"They shall look upon us and be glad!" declared Michael, tail wagging.

"They shall adore us!" agreed Lucifer, standing on his hind legs and pirouetting.

"Our generosity of deed shall inspire generosity of deed, and be rewarded with generosity of the heart," affirmed Raphael, "For the Wise Ass did say, 'The little ones are quite sweet, if a bit sticky, and if you make them laugh they'll pat you and want to share their candy.'!" His two older brothers nodded sagely.

"And I do spy plenty of candy floss out there in Audienceland tonight," whuffed Gabriel.

The trapeze artists descended from the nets to take their bows and were applauded off as Zeb took centre ring.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Karen Bailey was seven years old, and had been looking forward to her trip to the circus as a special birthday treat for weeks. She'd never been to a circus before, although she had several picture books about them. She thought it was mean to keep wild animals in cages, but her parents had assured her that there were no wild animals at this circus, so that was all right.

It was more amazing than she'd dreamed. She'd been given a stick of candy floss that was bigger than her head, and she'd patted a real live donkey with beautiful big brown eyes and soft fur, which had delicately eaten some of her candy floss from her hand, which tickled, and she'd even had her picture taken sitting on the donkey! She was going to take that picture to school for Show And Tell, she decided, because getting your picture taken sitting on a donkey was almost as amazing as seeing the boy horse do a wee (Mommy wouldn't take a picture of that, but that was all right, because Karen could draw a picture of it later).

The circus acts had thrilled her, with the music, the spangly costumes, the gaudy make-up, and she was especially taken with the feathers on the costume of the lady who trained the dancing horses. The people swinging on the trapeze had been a bit scary – she'd gasped when one let go and fell down, but the lady bounced in the net like it was a trampoline, and so Karen laughed instead, and clapped with everybody else until the ringmaster announced the next act.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," he intoned, "Tonight, making their debut with Dingle Dongle Danglers, I give you, the cavorting canines, the performing pooches, the most merrily musical mutts, please welcome Sioux Falls's very own act... The Counterterrierists!"

Before Karen could ask Mommy what a 'counterterrierist' was, a big black scary looking dog trotted into the ring, wearing sunglasses, a heavy studded leather collar, and a black dog coat with what Mommy said was the word 'Security' stencilled on it, which was a bit like the police, Mommy explained. He made a full circuit, stopping to sniff suspiciously at the ringmaster, then chased him from the ring! He then barked several times, which was apparently the cue for a tall man with fluffy hair and four little dogs in tutus to appear.

"Where is he?" shouted Tall Man as the four dogs began to circle him, "Where is he? Dean! DEAN!"

The big black dog ran from the ring and reappeared a moment later, herding in a man in a dog costume, and she laughed with everybody else. Tall Man irritably gestured for Dean the Dogman to take his place in the circle with the dancing dogs, and, sticking his tongue out and fluffing his tutu, Dean the Dogman did.

Karen thought they were marvellous. She cheered the acrobatics, then laughed when Dean the Dogman got 'stuck' in the barrel, and no amount of pushing or pulling by the four little dogs would dislodge him. It was really funny when he finally got out, then three dogs ran in the barrel, apparently guided by the smallest one, and knocked him over, whilst Tall Man looked on in disgust.

They leaped, the danced, they were the most wonderful dogs Karen had ever seen, and then, suddenly, one of them broke ranks and charged straight at her! He sat at her feet and begged, his big brown eyes on her candy floss, looking just like Aunty Angela's dog when he wanted a piece of cake, only she wasn't allowed to give Rusty cake because he was too fat, but this little doggy didn't look fat, just very cute. Mommy told her his name was Jack Russell, although how Mommy knew that she didn't know, but Mommy was a grown-up and knew all sorts of important things like how to make cookies and read story books so Karen didn't question it. She pulled a piece of her candy floss off the stick and gave it to Jack Russell.

The little dog accepted it carefully, gulped it down, then jumped into her lap with his legs in the air. She understood that, she'd seen Rusty do that – he wanted a belly rub! Smiling widely, she rubbed his belly, and he writhed in happiness. She heard the audience laughing, and looked up to see that the four other dogs were doing the same thing to other people! If that wasn't funny enough, Dean the Dogman then threw himself at Mommy's feet, and gazed wistfully at her until she bent down to scratch his belly too!

Tall Man was yelling at them, and he shouted at them to get their fuzzy butts back here, which made Karen giggle, because she wasn't supposed to say 'butt', and with a last lick at her hand Jack Russell jumped from her lap and headed back into the ring, as did his four companions. They headed for Tall Man, then lined up in front of him, facing away from him, and bent over and waggled their_ butts_ at him! After a moment's thought, Dean the Dogman joined them, and everybody laughed really hard.

They danced some more after that, and did a trick where they all stood on top of each other on Dean the Dogman's back. The littlest one tried twice to get to the top, but didn't make it, or fell off, and as he lined up for a third try, Karen was cheering him on, then she laughed and clapped when he made it and did a little dance on Jack Russell's back. She decided that he was her favourite.

The dog act finished after that, and they all lined up and bowed, and Karen decided that for Christmas she'd ask Santa for a tutu like Dean the Dogman had.

When she went back to school the next week, the teacher asked the class to write a story about what they'd done on the weekend. Karen was very excited to write about her circus trip. 'I went to the circuss and saw a donky I pated the donky and sat on the donky it wos good. The horse did a wee and it wos very big. The strong man wos very big the ladys on the trapees were brave and the clowns were stupid and scarey I hid my face. The best wos the dogs becos they dansed and they had tootoos and one of them sat in my lap his name was jack rusel he was very cute. The tall man said a word he yelled it and Mommy dident tell him off and Deen the dogman was very funny but he dident danse very well not like the dogs. I liked it alot and ate lots of coton candy and it was fun and I got sick after.' Then she drew a picture of the horse doing a wee.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Slow breaths, Sam, just breathe," instructed Dean. Sam had been given a terrible fright when the clowns, who had been next after the Counterterrierists, had nearly run into him with their clown car. He'd kept it together until the end of the performance, and then afterwards when people and their children wanted to meet and pat and be photographed with the performing dogs – several young ladies also wanted to be photographed cuddling with Dean – but when they returned to their trailer, Dean had to find a paper bag for him to breathe into.

"I knew there'd be clowns!" Sam gasped, "I knew it! They honked at me, Dean! They_ honked_ at me!"

"I know, Sam, I know," Dean soothed, "But it's over now."

"They were so close," whispered Sam, "They were so close, I could see the eyelets on their stupid clown shoes!"

"Okay, but..."

"And the sequins on their stupid clown gloves!" wheezed Sam.

"Yeah, but..."

"And the flecks of greasepaint smearing into their wigs, like the dried blood of unavenged victims congealing on the lank stringy scalps of their murderers..."

"Right, but... _what_?"

"And their stupid lumpy juggling balls, the size and distorted shape of them strangely suggestive of babies' skulls..."

"Dude, seriously?"

"And their car, an engine of coulrogenic destruction, bearing down on me, and _honking_, as they grinned and waved at me and stared at me with their dead, dead eyes..."

"Sam," Dean told him firmly, "Do not dwell on their car. You were going to imagine it getting T-boned, remember? T-boned stupid clown car, bleeding squashed screaming disarticulated clowns..."

"Zombie clowns!" wailed Sam.

"No, no, no," sighed Dean, patting Sam reassuringly on the back, "Look, I think you should try to eat something. Have some of this pasta that Alfonso's grandma sent back with you, it's really good..."

"She gave that for Lucifer," Sam noted.

"But I am willing to share," Lucifer added generously.

"See? He's willing to share," echoed Dean, dishing up pasta for humans and dogs.

Sam gawped at the Chihuahua. "You are?" he said. "Since when does the Lord of Hell like to share?"

"The sharing of food promotes brotherhood and well-being," Michael told him, "And the rejection of greed, and practise of moderation and deferral of gratification, promotes contentment a thousandfold more righteous than the crass excesses enjoyed by the glutton."

Raphael nodded solemnly. "For the Wise Ass did say, 'It's always nice to eat together with family – if you let the greedy ones try something first, then they'll find out if there's something wrong with it before you do, and later you can say it serves them right if they overeat and feel sick'."

"See?" Dean added, "Eating this pasta will promote your well-being, and be pleasing to God. The donkey said so, so it must be true." He put a bowl in front of Sam, who sighed and picked up his fork, while Dean fed the dogs.

"Truly the business of ingestion is more wondrous than I would ever have thought possible," huffed Raphael in contentment.

"Our Father works in delicious ways," Michael agreed.

"And so does Alfonso's grandmother," added Lucifer. "Are you going to eat that, Gabriel?" he enquired.

Gabriel nibbled at his pasta, then flopped to the floor with a despondent humph. "I think I might have overdone the candy floss," he moaned. "Or possibly the popcorn. No, it can't have been the popcorn, I didn't have more than two buckets of it in total..."

Raphael regarded Gabriel with sympathy. "Perhaps next time you should not be so covetous of other people's snacks," he suggested. He cocked his head, and grinned doggily. "I do believe that standing here and looking at you, I am experiencing righteous contentment," he yipped. "Truly, the adoration of the ass is worthwhile!"

"Amen to that," leered Dean.

"Sometimes, you know, sometimes, big brothers really suck," groaned Gabriel.

"Amen to that," huffed Sam.

* * *

Reviews are the Candy Floss Of Life Wrapped Around The Winchester Of Your Choice As The Stick! (You strange individuals. I hope you make yourselves sick.)


	16. Chapter 15

Oh, the Denizens are teh generous and teh patient with me. *sniff* I have so much feels for you all. Your reviews encourage the bunny.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

What is a gentleman?

The answer to that is: it depends.

In the first millennium after that proto-hippy got nailed to a cross-beam for suggesting that life might be happier if we could try to worry a bit less about our material wealth and try to be somewhat more civil to each other, the definition of 'gentleman' varied widely with location.

A gentleman of the Roman Empire was a Citizen from a noble family, spoke Latin without a vulgar provincial accent, was educated in philosophy, rhetoric and history, could quote Greek scholars fluently, was a capable public speaker, bathed at a reputable establishment, didn't kill slaves unless it was absolutely necessary and married his sisters and daughters off to the family's best advantage. An Arabic gentleman was a man of decent parentage who was educated in literature, poetry, astronomy, music, theology, equitation and swordsmanship, bathed daily, and didn't linger too long in the hamam indulging in idle gossip and banter. A West European gentleman was a man who managed to get together with enough unwashed like-minded individuals to beat the shit out of all the other bands of unwashed like-minded individuals until they could cow the local population into working to support them so that they could just do what they liked, which was live lavishly, bathe annually, and get together with their band of like-minded individuals to beat the shit out of other bands of like-minded individuals. (Northern Europe and Scandinavia didn't even bother trying to do 'gentleman', because trying to remember to keep your feet off the table and not accidentally stab a passing servant is not nearly as much fun as hunting, fighting, drinking until you throw up (other European gentlemen did this, but they didn't have always have enormous dogs in the dining hall to clear it up) and a bit of Hide The Happy Pink Dragon Prow in the rushes on the floor afterwards.)

The definition changed with time, of course. In Europe, 'gentleman' came to mean an inbred chinless wonder with an odd number of toes who was homozygous for the _sense of entitlement_ gene and took more care with the breeding of his dogs and horses than of his children. Today, 'gentleman' usually means a man who acts honourably, courteously and considerately, although a cynical woman who may tell you that a gentleman is a guy who takes his weight on his elbows, doesn't fall asleep immediately afterwards, and apologises after farting rather than grabbing the bed clothes and pulling them over her head whilst asking for a mark out of ten. As with so many things, context is everything.

Dean would never admit it, but beneath that cocky, leering, stubbled, slightly grubby exterior beat the heart of a gentleman. It found its expression in the way he dealt with the women he bedded (or walled, or rugged, or chaired, or barned, or carseated, or haystacked, or pooled, or spa-ed, or treed, or, yes, trapezed). Unfortunately for Sam, it didn't often extend to everyday living with his baby brother, where his eating, sleeping, driving, drinking, swearing, excreting, housekeeping and laundry habits tended more towards 'oaf'. Sam, on the other hand, had everyday gentlemanly tendencies, which sometimes led Dean to worry about his little brother's conduct after dark. "You need to get laid, Sam. Why don't you get laid? Is it... is it because you're not very good at it? It can't be, the Living Sex God has been lecturing you on the subject since you were a kid, you gotta have a sound grasp of the theory at least. Why is it that... oh, no, Sam, don't tell my you're an asshole in the bedroom, the 'Wham, bam, thank you ma'am' type? Dude, not cool, you're not doing the right thing unless you make her toes curl at least twice and leave her wishing that you had time for round three..." Which usually led Sam to making some very ungentlemanly observations and suggesting that Dean perform an anatomically impossible act upon himself.

So it was not surprising to see Dean chatting easily with a number of young ladies at the post-performance wind-down gathering. Everybody wanted to congratulate the dogs on their stellar performance.

"They're going to lose the use of their legs," noted Sam wryly as the dogs were passed from one person to the next for pats and cuddles, except for Lucifer, who had made himself at home in the crook of Alfonso's elbow.

"They're mingling, Sam, they're mingling," Dean corrected him, "How are they supposed to sniff out iniquity if they don't mingle?"

"Father wanted us to practise dog-like behaviours," Michael pointed out a young lady broke away from Dean to hold him and scritch his ears, "And according to Gabriel, small dogs are often carried around, in shoulder bags usually, and are petted and admired for their appealing appearance."

"It is a humble acceptance of physical contact as a form of affirmation and adoration," Raphael was almost purring, "And pleasing to our Father, for did the Wise Ass not say, 'It's how they try to communicate with us in their own limited way, and it makes them so happy, so if it feels good, let them do it'?"

"And it definitely feels good," panted Gabriel, as the horse trainer rubbed his ears, "And their human is not nearly as stuck-up as the Klingon sisters." He stuck his little nose into her spangled cleavage, much to the amusement of all watching, whilst Sam apologised profusely. "Yowsa! Hey, Madam Horse Whisperer, what's say you and me retire to your trailer and you show me your whips and spurs?"

"You're incorrigible," Sam muttered to Gabriel. "And you're going to explode," he chided Lucifer as the tiny dog accepted another tidbit of homemade sausage from Alfonso.

"He's-a da star!" Alfonso smiled, "Il Divo, he's-a need his-a strength, his-a henergy!"

"I was brightest and best loved in all of Heaven," Lucifer whuffed, "It is not surprising that I should attract admirers who wish to pay homage in a way meaningful to them." He took another morsel. "We are Father's firstborn, It is right and proper that we be feted, and generous on our part to acknowledge the attention of our admirers."

"Right," grinned Sam, watching Lucifer's curly little tail wag cheerily, "Homage."

"Speaking of mingling," Dean said to his brother, "Why are you not mingling?"

"I'm mingling," replied Sam defensively, "I'm here, look, See Sam Mingle. Mingle, Sam, mingle."

"Yeah, but you're not _mingling_ mingling," prompted Dean, with an eyebrow waggle that indicated that what he meant was that Sam's mingling was not adequately M-rated.

"Dean, I'm talking to people," Sam rolled his eyebrows and gave Dean a quick blast of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "Trying to ask questions about the acts here, find out who might be likely to use a levitation spell. Which is why we're here. Unbaptised individuals being murdered for their lung tissue, remember that?"

"Yeah, well, all work and no play makes Sam a total geek," Dean leered, "And we're in the middle of a group that includes a number of young and frisky and flexible ladies of various talents, multiple talents, even – Cindy does aerial silk as well as trapeze, and she can do some pretty interesting stuff with rope..."

"Gah!" Sam yelped, deploying Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "Can we try to concentrate on the job here?"

"All I'm saying is that this is a perfect opportunity for you to let your hair down," Dean persisted, "And you have so much hair to let down. You need to get laid, Sam. You probably haven't noticed, Mr Vanilla, but Kelly, she's the middle sister, the acrobat, has totally been checking you out, and I watched their act, Sam, she's got buns of steel and thighs that could crack walnuts, but if you ask her to be gentle with you, I'm sure..."

"Dean," Sam's voice took on a warning tone.

"...Although you might want to think about that, because there was this chick in circus school in California a few years ago, and she was doing all this pole and acrobatics stuff, and she did this kind of thing where she sort of _clenched_, and it was amazing..."

"Dean!" Sam hissed, his face pinking.

"...Kelly's brother did the escape act, and I'll bet that if you were feeling adventurous she'd borrow his handcuffs..."

"DEAN!" Sam snapped, unleashing a full strength Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "Shut! Up! About! Having! Sex!"

Dean sighed sadly. "There are times when I wonder where I went wrong," he told Sam wistfully. "I mean, look at that," he indicated where Jimi was lounging companionably with Lursa and B'Etor the snobby Dobermans, "Even the J-Man has found himself some female company. Get with the program!"

"I'm going to call Bobby, then turn in," Sam muttered, stalking back towards the Impala and cursing his brother's libido. He was so wrapped up in thinking about how satisfying it would be to set fire to Dean's porn mags and make him cry that he almost walked into a young woman struggling with a box of props piled so high she could barely see over them.

"Oh!" they yelped, both startled, the woman's tenuous grasp on the box slipping. With Hunter's reflexes, Sam's hands shot out and he grabbed it and lifted it easily.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled apologetically, "I should watch where I'm going."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry," she replied quickly, "I should've done this in two trips, but..." she smiled at him sheepishly. "You're Sam, aren't you?" she went on, "From The Counterterrierists. My mother says you're going to hell for a pun that bad."

"Between the four of them and my brother, I've been wondering if I'm already there," he couldn't help rolling his eyes.

"Oh, he was adorable!" she grinned, "They all were! If you ever want to adopt any of them out, I'd love to take the Pug. And Alfonso is completely enamoured of your Chihuahua... I'm Sophie," she told him, "And I'd offer to shake hands, but yours are kinda full just now, for which I thank you."

"Where do you want this?" he asked, and she set off for her family's trailer, asking about the dogs, and making noises of adoration.

"So, what do you do?" Sam asked her as he put the box down. "You did the juggling, right? Was that you doing the thing with your feet? That was amazing!"

"The Juggling Jeffersons," she smiled, "Six generations so far, and my nieces are learning. I'm the only one besides my grandmother to do it with feet! I'm working up to six hacky sacks." She plucked a small fabric ball from the box, and began to toss and catch it with one foot. "What about you? What do you do besides train adorable dogs and insufferable brothers?"

"Uh, not much, I'm afraid," he smiled ruefully. "I suppose I could stand in for a tent pole or something."

"Don't say that around Kelly," Sophie confided, "She does the Chinese pole act, and she was checking you out, and if she gets it into her head, then not even your Security Rottie will save you..." she gasped, and suddenly seemed to realise what she was saying. "Oh, God, that was so rude!" she almost wailed, "I am so sorry, I mean, it's none of my business, you know, if you want to do a pole dance with Kelly, she's just... oh, God..." her face went red.

"It's okay," Sam grinned, "Thanks for the heads-up." He snatched the hacky sack from mid-air, reached down into the box of props for two more, and began a clumsy three ball cascade. "Ta-dah!" he announced.

Sophie laughed. "Oh, you _can_ do something else!" she noted.

"A girlfriend got me a set once, a long time ago, as a joke," he told her, not taking his eyes off what he was doing, "And I learned to juggle them just to annoy her..." Jess hadn't been annoyed, of course, she'd laughed until Sam thought she'd be sick, then asked him what other unexpected dexterities he might have practised while she was on break with her family... "I'm kinda rusty though."

"Well, you need to practise!" Sophie told him firmly. "And work up to four, at least."

"Outta my league, I'd say," he didn't stop watching the cascade, "I could never do the stuff you guys do. You must have superpowers, or something."

"No, I got my grandparents," Sophie corrected, "They trained up everybody. I could juggle before I could write!"

"They still instruct you?" Sam asked casually.

Sophie nodded. "They have a very strict training regime, for all of us," she told him, "It's how they've stayed in the game so long, and how they're so good. They hold several world records. Grandpa can do more torches than guys half his age, and Grandma practically invented the foot cascade thing – nobody else can do it except her and me. Fitness, and practice. And Grandma's special Sunday meatloaf," she smiled.

Sam's cascade collapsed. "Meatloaf?" he echoed.

"Oh, absolutely!" she laughed, "Every Sunday, Grandma cooks up her secret recipe meatloaf. It's delicious! Grandpa says it's the secret to our success, and he claims that if she doesn't cook it for some reason, he's not at his best for weeks afterwards."

"Wow," said Sam, "What does she put in her meatloaf? Steroids? Pixie dust?"

"She says it's a secret recipe," Sophie drawled, rolling her eyes, "Passed from grandmother to granddaughter, and she'll tell me when I'm old enough to need to know. Mind you," she confided, "I suspect she puts a good splash of brandy into it. That would account for the menfolk of the family liking it so much. Here, if you're going to do four, it's different to three. Start with two in each hand..."

Sam let Sophie show him how to start a four-ball cascade, demonstrating effortlessly, and barely even smiling when his left hand refused to co-operate.

"Practice," she said, when he finally had a very lopsided cascade going, "And before you know it, we'll have you on a unicycle, in a tutu, and playing Dixie on a kazoo while you do it."

"I don't think all the meatloaf in the world will make me a juggler," he confided as he lost control of the bags, "And I'll leave the tutu to my brother. He makes it work. Dean rocks the tutu."

"Between you and me, Sam?" Sophie cocked an eyebrow at him, "I think you'd look great in a tutu."

"Uh... thanks?" he replied hesitantly, his face pinking slightly.

"Good night, Sam," Sophie said, heading into the trailer. She paused. "You play Words With Friends?" she asked him.

"Er, yeah, sometimes," he stuttered, "I don't have a lot of contacts, though, and Dean isn't too keen on games that involve leaving all his clothes on..."

She gave him an appraising look, then asked for his phone and put in her number. "If you juggle letters like you juggle bags, I will wipe the board with you," she smiled challengingly.

"If you juggle letters like you juggle... anything, you are probably right," he had to agree, returning her smile as she went into the trailer.

He called Bobby straight away to fill him in on the details of their debut performance and what intel they'd managed to gather, leaving out the details of Dean's erotic aerial acrobatics. "And I might have another lead," he told the older Hunter, "The jugglers did some unbelievable stuff, and now it turns out that they all sit down to Grandma's Secret Recipe Meatloaf every Sunday, and if she doesn't make it, it affects their performance."

"Well, you just be careful with your pokin' around," Bobby cautioned him, "I've been doing some more research on this type of spell. It takes a powerful practitioner to pull this off, so watch your step, and don't tip your hand."

"Will do," he assured Bobby.

"And tell that idjit brother of yours not to get too frisky with too many of the circus ladies," Bobby warned, "A circus is like an extended family, and they have no secrets. You cross one, you may find you've crossed 'em all."

"I'll tell him," Sam promised, arriving at the Impala. He went to put his hand on the trailer door – and saw the sock on the handle.

He turned to the car, and saw Jimi and the four archpooches curled up together on the front seat, snoozing on Jimi's blanket. Gabriel opened one eye.

"If you can get me in the door, I can take your cell with me, and get footage for blackmailing purposes?" he suggested hopefully.

Sam sighed, then climbed into the back seat and made himself as comfortable as he could. Dean had left him a pillow and a blanket.

"I'll tell him first thing tomorrow," he told Bobby glumly.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice (choose up to two):

a) Betutued And Riding A Unicycle

b) Juggling Battery Powered Items

c) Hiding In The Car Whining "Make It Stop, Make It Stop."

In The Circus Of Life!


	17. Chapter 16

ZOMG This one has cracked 300 revies OMGWTFBBQ!

Ahem. Right.

I had no idea that Mrrs Padalecki or Collins played Words with Friends. I'm afraid I'm not that obsessive. I watch the show, and enjoy it, but have no desire to know about the actors' lives outside of the fictional characters they play. The only things I know are the things that I find out in passing from time to time because the Denizens mention them in their wonderful reviews. It's a fine line between Twitter-following convention enthusiast and stalker.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

What is exaggeration?

The answer to that is...

Look, why don't we just examine an example, and draw our inference of the definition from there?

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Dean woke up, he knew that something was wrong.

'Waking up and realising that something was wrong' was an idiom with which Dean considered himself well acquainted. In fact, he considered himself to be something of an aficionado, an adept, a connoisseur, even, in the genre of 'waking up and realising that something was wrong'. He'd had more experience in it than most people on the planet could ever conceive of. Waking up several miles from where he'd unexpectedly blacked out, waking up sitting in a bath of linguini, waking up wearing nothing but some lipstick marking out occult symbols, waking up in a female werewolf's body; yep, from waking up in hospital with wires and tubes going places he'd really rather not think about to waking up tied to something with some fugly planning to do something that he knew he wasn't going to enjoy no matter how much chocolate sauce was involved, Dean considered himself an expert on the topic.

So when he woke up completely unable to move, he knew that something was wrong.

"Nrrrrrglf," he mumbled into the squishy surface that his face was pressed into. "Nrrrrglf!"

"Dean?" he heard Sam's voice query. And then he knew that it was all right, because whatever had happened, his brother had found him, his baby bro who'd saved him before and would save him again, because that's just how the Winchesters rolled, one would take a bullet for the other, one would go to Hell to save the other, one would tear the world apart for the other, and whatever had happened Sam would fix it now, would break the chick-flick moment rule and hold him, and say "It's okay, I gotcha, big bro," and then his genius little brother would figure out what had happened, and he'd move Heaven and Earth to track down whatever had dared to hurt his family, his brother, his Dean, the most precious thing in his world, and he'd find it and kill it and smile while it burned...

"Be careful, Sam!" he warned his brother, "Something's paralysed me! I can't move!"

Except his face was still pressed into something squishy, so it came out "Brrrrrrgrrrrrrrl smmmf! Srrrrrmths brrrlrrrrrf mrrr! Rrrrr crrrrrr brrrrrrr!"

"You're gonna have to try English, dude," Sam humphed. "I never took Derp at school."

With an enormous effort of will, Dean managed to turn his head a bit sideways. They were in the circus trailer. He was on his bed. Sam was sitting at the small table, peering thoughtfully at his laptop, while Jimi lounged on the sofa bench with the four archcanines lounging comfortably against him, snoozing contentedly. His momentary surprise at Sam's apparent disinterest in his plight subsided; Sam was obviously already on the case, had worked out what the problem was, and was absorbed in researching a counterspell to save his big brother...

"It's Cindy," Dean managed to wheeze, "She's the witch, Sam!"

"Yeah?" Sam didn't even look up. Doesn't want his train of thought broken while he finds a way to fix this, thought Dean, with a stab of brotherly affection.

"She's dangerous, Sam!" Dean rasped. "Look what she's done to me!"

"Uh-huh," Sam muttered, tapping at his cell – he must be messaging Bobby while researching on his laptop, Dean thought fondly, multitasking like a big worried octopus...

"She's obviously put some paralysis curse on me! She's worked out we're onto her, and she cursed me before she left last night!"

"She's definitely involved in what's happened to you," Sam nodded distractedly, checking his notes. Dean felt a pang of guilt for doing this to his brother; going into problem-solving mode was Sam's way of coping with distress, which he was obviously feeling at seeing his brother cursed, and he was bravely suppressing any show of emotion because he didn't want to worry Dean, only wanted him to know that he was on the job and would fix this...

"So, what do we do?" asked Dean as casually as he could; if his baby brother could be brave for him, he could at least return the favour...

"I got it," Sam stood and sighed, rolling his eyes. Dean grinned to himself; Sam was clearly offended by the question, because of _course_ he would fix it, of _course_ he would work out how to undo the dastardly spell, how could Dean doubt him?

He watched as his brother carefully poured lurid green liquid into a plastic cup. The way his brother's brain worked scared him sometimes; Sam had worked out what was wrong, and brewed the counterspell while Dean was asleep. The kid was smart, he thought proudly, humbled and guilty at the thought that Sam had been up all night preparing the disgusting looking brew to help his big brother. The fact that he'd do the same without thinking didn't make him feel any less guilty. He was supposed to look after Sam, not the other way around.

"Drink that," Sam instructed brusquely. Dean craned his neck, wincing, to eye the cup dubiously.

"Er, a little help, here?" he asked. "Cursed, remember? Evil witch? Can't move?"

Without warning, Sam put one hand under Dean's shoulder and another under his hip, and flipped him onto his back.

"Aaaaaaargh!" yowled Dean in a strangled voice, "Aaaaaargh! Oh, crap, that hurts! I'm not just paralysed, Sam, everything hurts!"

"Drink that," Sam repeated.

Gritting his teeth against the terrible aches and pains it caused, Dean reached out weakly to pick up the cup, manoeuvre it to his lips, and...

"Gatorade?" he looked up at Sam, bemused, "Gatorade? How does Gatorade break the curse? Owwwwww!"

"Oh, for..." Sam humphed, went to his duffel, and returned. "Here, take these."

Ah, now we get to it, Dean grimaced, he had to eat something revolting, like mole's eyes, or frog's toes, or some horrible pill compounded from ground up herbs and weasel snot, or something equally foul. "I don't want to know," he moaned, holding out a hand weakly, shutting his eyes, "I really don't want to know what I have to swallow..."

"Ibuprofen," Sam told him.

Dean risked opening one eye. Two small white tablets sat in his hand; he shot a quizzical look at his brother. "How the hell is that supposed to break the curse?" he demanded.

Sam gave Dean a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "The electrolytes in the drink, particularly the potassium, will help with the cramps and muscle aches. The ibuprofen is an anti-inflammatory analgesic. You are not cursed Dean. You are suffering from DOMS."

"Doms?" echoed Dean incredulously. He searched his memory. Cindy had worn a leotard, yes, but there hadn't been any corsets or whips or anything to suggest dominatrix tendencies; if there had been, and he'd drunk too much to be able to remember, he'd never forgive himself...

"D, O, M, S," Sam clarified. "Delayed onset muscle soreness. Caused by muscular activity, particularly eccentric muscle contraction, to which an individual is not accustomed."

"Eccentric muscle contraction?" Dean sounded confused. "What, like, working out while wearing a duck on your head?"

"It means a muscle being under load while lengthening," Sam clarified. "Such as walking down a steep hill, or lowering a heavy weight. Or, maybe, dangling from a trapeze if you're not used to it..."

"You mean... I'm not cursed?" Dean sounded surprised.

"Well, yeah, you are cursed," nodded Sam, "But not with a paralysis spell. You're cursed with Dean Winchesterness, you either can't or won't acknowledge your own limits. You're like a kid who eats a whole tub of ice-cream, then complains of stomach pains, feels sick, and throws up. Only in your case, it's not eyes bigger than your stomach, your dick's bigger than your myofibrils."

"Oh," Dean said in a small voice. "Then... you're not researching my curse?"

"Nope," Sam returned to his laptop, "I've been researching juggling. The Juggling Jeffersons really are at the top of their field. Some of the moves they pull, they're the only ones ever to do."

"And you're not messaging Bobby?" Dean asked wistfully.

"Nope," Sam said again, "Playing 'Words with Friends'." He frowned at the phone. "And she's damned good," he mused.

"She?" That had Dean's attention. "She? Who is this she who's a friend you word with, Sam?"

"Oh, er, Sophie," Sam tried to keep his face from flushing, "I met her last night."

"Aha!" Dean grinned, "So you actually did go mingling! _Mingling_ mingling!"

"I helped her with a box of props," Sam told him, "And got talking to her – trying to figure out who the witch is, remember that? She's one of the Juggling Jeffersons."

"And now, you're friending her. With _words_," Dean waggled his eyebrows. "Owwww, that hurts..."

"I was talking to her about their act," Sam went on, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "It turns out, her grandmother makes her special secret recipe meatloaf every Sunday, for the whole family. It's an essential part of their training routine; no meatloaf, their performance standard drops."

"So you think Grandma Jefferson could be dishing up lung meatloaf?" Dean pulled a face. "Gross. I mean, meatloaf's okay, meatloaf can be good, but not with pieces of human lung added."

"It would be the perfect cover," Sam pointed out. "I dunno, I didn't get an evil bitch vibe from Sophie – she says the recipe's passed from grandmother to granddaughter, and she won't be let in on the Big Meatloafy Secret until she's older. Grandma could be doing it, and the rest of the family could not even know about it."

"Uh-huh. So, if not an evil bitch vibe, what sort of vibe _did_ you get from Sophie?" Dean pressed.

"What? Dean, I just met her!" Sam protested. "She seems... nice enough. Friendly. Easy to talk to. Can hold an intelligent conversation. She warned me about Kelly the acrobat, even..."

"Aaaaaah," Dean intoned knowingly, "She wants you all to herself!"

"No she doesn't!" Sam shot back. "She was trying to be... nice."

"Nice is good," Dean conceded, "You like nice. Was her ass nice too?"

"Dean!" Sam barked at his brother. "I wasn't looking at her ass!"

"Why not?" demanded Dean. "If my baby brother is going to get laid, I want to make sure she's up to standard! I need to know about her ass, Sam."

"No you don't! And neither to I!" yelped Sam. "Aaaaargh! I should've stayed at school. Finished law. Then maybe I could have worked out how to legally divorce my big brother."

"I'm supposed to look after you, you know," Dean said reproachfully. "It's my job to look after you. You need to get laid, Sam, not just worded by friends."

"_With_ friends, it's Words _with_ Friends. What I need," Sam muttered, frowning at his phone, "Is some new letters." He tapped at his phone.

"I need some breakfast," Dean stated, "And a fifth of Jack, and half a packet of painkillers. Owwwwww. You sure I'm not cursed?" he asked plaintively.

"Positive," replied Sam, smiling, "And the funniest bit is that it's going to get worse before it gets better."

"That's not funny, dude," whined Dean, "That's tragic!"

"It's self-inflicted," Sam corrected him primly. "If you were in the Army, you'd be on a charge."

"If I was in the Army, I would be mercifully dead by now," groaned Dean. "So, what does one do for post-trapeze pain?"

"Treatment of symptoms," Sam replied, "Replace your electrolytes, painkillers, heat packs, that sort of thing."

Dean let his head fall back to the pillow despairingly. "We don't have that many heat packs," he almost wailed.

Sam looked thoughtfully at Jimi and his four small companions. "I don't know about that," he mused.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"And this is definitely a dog-like behaviour?" asked Raphael dubiously.

"Totally," Sam assured him, "Look at Jimi," he added, indicating the way the large animal was laying contentedly against Dean's side, "He does that all the time when one of us is hurt."

"Come on, guys," Gabriel said, snuggling carefully against Dean's side, "This is a mission of mercy. We got a man down in the line of man-duty, here."

"I derive no pleasure from seeing you in pain, Dean," Michael whuffed sympathetically, "And it is of course vital for you, as the comic element, to be fit enough to be part of our act. Where would you like me to go?"

"On his leg, maybe," Sam answered quickly, his spidey-senses alerting him that Dean was about to reply using words like 'hell' and 'fucking' and 'screw yourself on the way'.

"Very well," agreed Raphael, "Because it is you, the Sharer Of Pizza, who asks this, and the Wise She-Ass has made it clear that tending to the well-being of another is a sign of piety, and will reward the individual in reciprocal well-being."

Michael nodded. "For did she not say, 'Young humans and young horses have a lot in common – they can kick up such a disproportionate fuss when they're distressed; the quicker you soothe them, the quicker you can all get some peace'?"

"Hey!" protested Dean, "I'm not being disproportionate!"

"You are making a fuss," Sam pointed out.

"This is strangely... comfortable," remarked Lucifer, cuddling into Dean's ribs. "Also, I am able to relate to your unfortunate situation."

"Yeah?" Dean was instantly curious despite himself. "You got trapezes in Hell?"

"Trapezes in Hell, no," Lucifer clarified, "But trees in Niflheim, yes. I have a female acquaintance there who is a most willing, enthusiastic and imaginative partner..."

"Really?" Dean couldn't help but feel a certain fascination.

"Do not get him started," Michael whined. "She sends him letters, and he is insufferable when he reads her reminiscences..."

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. "You know, technically, that's my daughter you're boning, your niece," he said. "If I was human, I'd be all sorts of annoyed about that."

"There's a human expression that might apply here," Sam interjected, "And that expression is 'Too Much Information'..."

"But you are not human," Lucifer replied equably, "And neither is she."

"She's not human?" repeated Dean.

"She is a demi-goddess," Lucifer replied. "And more... insatiable than any human woman could ever be."

"I dunno, little furry dude," grinned Dean, "I've met some pretty insatiable women in my time."

"Did any of them ever send you letters afterwards?" Lucifer positively grinned.

"Well, no," Dean had to admit. "She really sent you letters?"

"Indeed," Lucifer went on, "Telling me how much she misses me, and some of our more... energetic escapades. On one occasion, I was visiting her, and there was a snowstorm that lasted for two full days..."

"Oh, Father," moaned Michael, "He's going to start reciting those pornographic letters. He memorises them, you know."

"Really?" Gabriel actually leered. "So, were you stuck in her hall the whole time?"

"Gabriel!" squawked Sam, "She's your daughter!"

"Hey, Hel's a big girl now," Gabriel grinned. "She can take care of herself."

"She writes me letters about that, too," Lucifer intoned archly.

Dean's grin broadened. "Yeah? Well, there's something very attractive about a woman who can tell you exactly what she wants..."

"I'll go and get breakfast," yelped Sam, grabbing the Impala's keys and fleeing.

He slid into the driver's seat and was about to shut the door, when he glanced down to see the most mournful puggy face in the world gazing up at him pleadingly.

"Take me with you," begged Michael.

Sam bent down and scooped him up, depositing him in shotgun.

"How many letters does he have to repeat?" asked Sam.

"He has been dallying with Hel since he was Cast Out," Michael told him. "There are many."

Sam and the archcanine looked at each other.

"Let's go and get breakfast," Sam sighed eventually, starting the car.

"Yes," Michael agreed, "But let us do it slowly."

* * *

*Castiel pedals past on a unicycle, juggling, playing a kazoo*

**Sam: **WTF?...

**Bobby:** Apparently, nobody could agree on whether it would be you or Dean, so as a compromise...

*Castiel pedals back the other way, still kazooing*

**Bobby:** It could be worse.

**Sam: **How could it be worse?

**Bobby: **He could not have his trench coat on.

*Dean sprints past*

**Dean: **Hey! HEY! Come back here with my tutu, you, you, you assbutt!

**Sam (averting eyes):** Oh, jeez, put some pants on, bro.

_**fin**_

Reviews are the Groaning Winchester Of Your Choice Needing Heat Pack Therapy on the Sofa Of Life!


	18. Chapter 17

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

A long time Denizen and member of the DDD&SSS has pointed out very politely that my comments at the beginning of the last chapter could well be construed as being disparaging of people who go to cons. That was not my intention, and I am sorry that it has offended at least one person (chances are, others as well). I just wanted to convey that I am often ignorant of information tidbits that other people manage to pick up via other forums, or cons, or Twitter, or just by living in Real Life (I don't like it out there; it can be scary).

Clearly, going to cons doesn't make you a stalker*. It's not immoral, it's not illegal, and it isn't bad for your cholesterol, so you could do worse for an amusement. The Denizens are depraved, but they are depraved in a genteel and civilised and sometimes extremely artistic way, not at all in a creepy stalky way. As the commenter pointed out, the actors wouldn't keep turning up to these events if they didn't enjoy themselves or if they felt the least bit stalked. And they can't be too worried if they keep Tweeting about what they're up to. (Do people who follow Misha Collins really call themselves Minions? Which begs the question: if Jim Beaver has Twitter followers, are they called Twidgits?)

Anyway, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. (I'd do big wistful puppy-dog eyes if I thought I could, but I can't, so I'm getting my shepherd to stare at the screen while I wave a dog treat at her. )

*Unless you are a Trekkie who dresses up outside of cons, in which case, you really do scare me...

**ETA:** ffn is going through some changes at the moment, and as a side-effect it is messing with punctuation. Colons, semicolons, hyphens, some commas, spaces and some quotation marks simply disappear and cannot be edited back in. So if the expression and grammar in this chapter is not all it could be, I apologise. I will try to fix it as and when ffn allows.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

What is a miracle?

The answer to that is: it depends.

As with so many things, it's about context and interpretation.

The human brain has evolved to notice shapes and patterns. It's been a survival trait for our species; an early hominid who didn't learn pretty damned quickly to recognise the tell-tale blotches of a sabre-tooth squirrel amongst the outlines of autumn leaves would pretty quickly be subjected to a squirt of chlorine into that end of the gene pool. In modern times it explains our predisposition for finding amusing shapes in clouds, or screaming and stomping on a tangle of thread because it looks a bit like a spider. It may also contribute to humans wanting to know _why_, and seeking causal relationships for things. Not knowing why something happened can be confusing, frightening, or just annoying.

For thousands of years, just about anything from thunderstorms to warts that couldn't be explained by the observable and accepted rules of nature was attributed to gods. This wasn't just blame-shifting; when something fortuitous happened inexplicably, gods got the kudos, too. Such things were termed miracles, divine intervention in the natural order for human benefit. This was an explanation of sorts where no other was available, and also had the added benefit of making people feel special, since there was apparently an all-powerful entity somewhere that, just maybe, might take an interest and intervene when all other hope seems lost. 'Happy coincidence' just isn't as reassuring.

Some people are still inclined to work with this sort of explanation, even though science has identified that cancer sometimes spontaneously regresses, rosary beads made of minerals can change colour in an altered chemical environment or even from being handled, droughts can unexpectedly break suddenly, and people of a particularly suggestible frame of mind can see visions of saints in anything. It's all relative, of course: when you consider that people are willing to bid thousands of dollars on eBay to purchase stale foodstuffs that have, if you squint hard enough or drink for long enough, the face of Jesus (or at the very least Ted Nugent or maybe James Hetfield pre-crewcut) on them, then somebody seeing the Virgin Mary hovering in the air over the back fence really doesn't seem that amazing.

The big 'miracles', the cancer cures and disappearing health problems that get prospective saints over the line for canonisation, are usually outside the experience of the majority. It's the little apparent miracles that we notice and appreciate, such as the sudden appearance of a parking bay in a crowded lot, the unexpected finding of a precious trinket thought lost, or the way an annoying relative who's come to visit for a fortnight will suffer acute onset laryngitis and be unable to utter a word for the entire visit.

It was one of those little miracles, thought Sam, that a single cup of coffee could see Dean bounce back from moaning, groaning pile of self-induced discomfort to leery, cheery, cavaliery pile of annoyingly upbeat big brother determined to share Too Much Information.

"So, anyway, she was on the swim team," Dean held forth, gesturing with his coffee, "And in training they do this drill where they swim without taking many breaths, so she could hold her breath for an amazingly long time, so we turned on the spa..."

"Ah, the sad limitations of the imperfect, flawed body of Father's later creations," grinned Lucifer, "The wonderful thing about a demi-goddess is that she doesn't have to breathe at all if she doesn't want to. There is a hot spring not far from Hel's lodge, and we have disported ourselves on a number of extremely pleasant occasions."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyebrows waggled. "Part mermaid, huh?"

"Part mermaid, or part suckerfish," leered Lucifer. "I myself need not breathe; one of Hel's letters suggests that a particular exploitation of that fact left quite an impression on her. 'As the bold eel may twist into the welcoming cave beneath the foaming waves, so do I miss our afternoon beneath the waters of the lake, our ecstasy twining about us as the tentacles of the kraken consumes its prey, and your lustful squid probed my threshing corals...'."

"Wow," breathed Dean, "That's amazing. She writes porn without writing porn! Hey, Sam, this is the sort of porn you could appreciate! Are you listening to this?"

"I'm trying not to," Sam huffed, peering at his phone.

"You still wording your friend?" Only Dean could make it sound so depraved.

"Yeah, actually," Sam replied, "But the board's getting full, and it's getting trickier."

"Shuffling letters around, how hard can it be?" Dean rolled his eyes. "Here, let me see..."

"Fine, genius, be my guest," Sam snarked, handing over his cell, "I think my best move is to add to 'GAS', I got T, R, I and C..."

"No, no, no!" Dean cut him off, "You got M, O and R here. What you need..." Before Sam could protest, Dean took his turn for him."There," he smiled. "That gives you a higher score."

Sam snatched back his phone and looked at it. "ORGASM?" he burst out. "Dean!"

"Hey, triple word score, bro," Dean beamed, "Plus, it'll let her know what's on your mind..."

"What's on _your_ mind, you mean, as in, 24/7," Sam's face flushed, "Where's Gabriel? Why isn't he here mauling you two for talking about his daughter?"

"He went to try his hand, or his paw, with Lursa and B'Etor again," Lucifer answered. "And Raphael has gone to seek an audience with the Wise She-Ass."

"Speaking of ass worship," grinned Dean, "I did some research on DOMS while you were out, and you know what's good for it?"

"Lying down quietly in a cupboard somewhere with a gag in your mouth and a pillow over your face?" suggested Sam, without much hope.

"Nope. The best way to get over it is... more of the same!" Dean answered triumphantly. "Sounds crazy, huh? But the best way to get back up and at 'em is to, er, get back up, so to speak, and at 'em..."

"I really don't need to know this," Sam almost whined.

"You have not truly experienced all that lust has to offer until you have fornicated in zero gravity," sighed Lucifer happily.

"I definitely do not need to know this," Michael definitely whined. "Sam, perhaps we should do more research into the use of offal to cast evil occult spells my canine nose ought to be of great assistance."

"That's a wonderful idea, Michael," Sam nodded eagerly, "We can get started right away!"

He was in such a rush to get the hell away from Dean and Lucifer and their pornfest that he forgot his cell. With a quick shot of Bitchface #13 (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust) at both of them, he ducked back in, grabbed up his phone, and left again.

But not before Dean had taken his next turn too, by adding D and E before the word FLOWER.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was easy to circulate without seeming suspicious; it was usual for circus members to help out with the constant odd jobs that cropped up. He was drafted into assisting the team tensioning the trapeze rigging, then adjusting the guys on the main tent. Alfonso was there, and seemed disappointed that Il Divo was not accompanying him, but petted and praised Michael for his dignity and talent.

"Is Dean with you?" asked Cindy hopefully, testing the ladder and casually stretching to put an ankle behind her head.

"Er, no," Sam managed, "I think he's, er, feeling a bit, um, overtaxed by your, uh, encounter last night. As a rule, he can't put his foot behind his head without breaking something." _And if he can_, Sam added in the privacy of his own head, _I do not want to know about it._

"Oh, no," Cindy's face creased with concern, "I _told_ him a reciprocating force-out might not be a good idea, especially after we had a scare with the slip drop, but he was very... keen..."

"It's not your fault," Sam consoled her, "If you told Dean you wanted to jump off a cliff and have sex on the way down, he'd be willing to try it."

"I bet he'd offer to let me go on top, too," smiled Cindy as she scuttled away.

Hauling on the rigging was a welcome distraction from the idea of Dean and his probable willingness to consider mid-air congress ("If he was absolutely determined to try that, wouldn't a parachute jump be more sensible?" whined Michael from the sidelines). As they finished up, Sam became aware of being watched.

"Don't look now, but you have an audience," he heard Sophie's voice say behind him. He turned to see her tossing and catching two balls on one foot. Her eyes slid sideways, and Sam turned to see Kelly the acrobat and Alfonso's grandmother studying him. Kelly bit her lip and gave him a wave; Nonna eyed him thoughtfully.

"Oh, God," Sam muttered, "I can probably hold off Grandma Alfonso, but when Kelly smiles at me I feel like a sardine being eyed off by a shark..."

"You should probably worry more about Alfonso's nonna," Sophie told him, "She was a respected strongwoman in her youth. It's only just the last few years that she hasn't been able to put Alfonso across her knee if he does something she doesn't like."

At that point, Alfonso's grandmother made her move. To the amusement of the gathered circus people, she strode across the tent to eye a bewildered Sam like a canny cook inspecting a prime beef carcass, prodding him critically and finally announcing that with a good training regime, and a lot of feeding up, both of which she was expert in, he would make a wonderful strongman performer some day. Alfonso shrugged apologetically, gave Michael a final pat, and followed his grandmother out.

"You should be flattered," Sophie laughed as the assembled performers gave him a round of applause while he blushed furiously, "Usually, she prods the guys here, and yells disparagingly about 'weedy children'."

"It could be worse," Sam sighed in a resigned tone, "At least Dean wasn't here to see that. I'd never have heard the end of it."

"Oh, by the way, you won," Sophie stopped her foot juggling, and waggled her cell at him. "Well done."

"Er, I did?" Sam blinked.

"Yep. Fair and square. It was your orgasm that clinched it, really, you didn't have to deflower me although that was a nice finishing move," she told him with a straight face, one corner of her mouth barely twitching.

Sam's face turned red. He was infinitely grateful that Dean hadn't been present to hear_ that_, either. "That was my brother," he stuttered, "He took my phone, he has a disgustingly filthy mind, I was going to do GASTRIC..."

"It's okay, Sam!" Sophie laughed, "It was a joke! I'm teasing you! She waggled her phone again. "Best out of three?"

Sam relaxed and laughed too. "Sure," he agreed. "Maybe with civilised vocab this time."

"Oh, I don't know," she pouted theatrically, "Now I know how to distract you, break your concentration, maybe I should see how many orgasms I can fit into one game. See you later." She smiled, winked at him and sauntered away.

Sam stared after her. Yeah, really,_ really_ glad Dean wasn't here.

Because he wouldn't be able to disagree about the niceness of her ass this time...

"Sam?" Michael whuffed uncertainly, breaking into his thoughts.

"Huh? What? Hmm?" Sam shook himself mentally, and looked down at the dog. "What is it, Michael?"

"My nose," Michael replied.

Sam peered at Michael. "It's, er, there on your face," he said eventually, "A bit squashed in, but definitely there, and apparently functional."

"It is the function of my nose to which I wish to alert you," Michael went on. "Alfonso's grandmother? She smells of offal. She has definitely been handling offal."

Sam groaned. Their list of suspects now included an elderly woman who, if she was the culprit, could quite possibly have a choice of knotting their limbs behind them like pretzels, or maybe turning them into actual pretzels.

"I guess we'll have to check it out," he conceded, "After all, a levitation spell would make perfect sense for a strength act she might even have used it herself, and now be using it on her grandson."

As he headed back towards the trailer, his phone chimed. The new game had started.

SUCK

"Let's see if we can find Raphael," he suggested. "And maybe I can ask the donkey what to do about unspeakably lewd brothers."

"If the Wise One has anything to offer on the topic, I would like to hear it too," panted Michael.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What _is_ that smell?" asked Sam when he got back to their trailer a couple of hours later.

"It's liniment," Dean informed him, "A special brew that Cindy's family uses, for aches, pains, strains, and generally feeling over-exerted. Cindy was so apologetic, she said as soon as she heard I was feeling a bit indisposed, she grabbed the bottle and came over."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Grabbed the tanker, is more like it. Did you roll in it, or what?"

"Well, I hurt pretty much everywhere," Dean beamed, "And Cindy insisted on rubbing it on for me..."

"Okaaaay, that's nine-tenths of T.M.I. right there," Sam scowled, sniffing again. What's in it?"

"Not sure," Dean grinned, "But judging from the effects, I'd say it includes a fair concentration of Viagra..."

"Gah!" yelped Sam, with a dose of Bitchface #6 (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "I've been doing some actual recon while you've been... disporting yourself with Cindy the Massaging Trapeze Artist. We have another candidate for spell-caster." Michael explained how he'd smelled offal on Alfonso's grandmother, tactfully leaving out all reference to her appraisal of Sam.

"Well, as it turns out, I do have some intel to report," Dean countered."I was asking Cindy about the acts here, and she's pretty certain that Rhonda the horse trainer is using something unnatural to keep her cleavage looking twenty years perkier than the rest of her..."

"Dean, plastic surgery on a normal healthy body is spooky and evil, but not terribly occult," Sam told him. "Same goes for underwire bras. Some of the really structurally robust ones can be scary, though, I'll grant you that, the time I had to go buy you a maternity bra, I was terrified..."

"She could be onto something; Rhonda doesn't wear a bra. Trust me, Sam, I'm an expert in assessing these things from a hundred yards away," Dean assured him. "She also says there's something weird going on with the clowns."

Sam's hands fumbled his laptop. "The c-clowns?" He hated the tremor in his voice.

"Cindy says there's something weird about the way their hair stands up like that," Dean continued, "And the way they walk in those oversized shoes, and don't fall off those bikes with the square wheels."

"Okay, clowns are spooky and evil, and on occasion, decidedly occult," Sam opined, "But crazy lacquered wigs have been part of the clown shtick forever, the oversize shoes is a practice thing, and the wheels of the bikes aren't actually square, if you look closely you'll see that the wheels are rounded off a bit, and the tyres are wider, solid and bit flexible. It's more optical illusion than anything else, but it looks really convincingly freaky..."

"Ah, but what about the wire walker who can't lay off the booze?" Dean declared triumphantly. "Cindy says that he's always been fond of a drink, but he developed a bout of stage fright a few years ago, and turned to the bottle. Some nights, he's so drunk that he can barely stand up at ground level, yet he does forwards somersaults on a wire! If that's not a candidate for a levitation spell, I don't know who is."

"He's been doing it for decades," Sam pointed out, "If he's a seasoned drinker, he'll have a high alcohol tolerance, so that getting loaded just lowers his inhibitions and slows down his higher thought processes, letting his lower brain and muscle memory take over and perform better." He looked sidelong at Dean. "Much the same way that you can get completely hammered and still drive, shoot or screw. Unless you're going to tell me you've been using some sort levitation spell."

"The Living Sex God does NOT need any levitation spell," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "The Living Sex God can get it to levitate whenever he needs to. It's a gift. Don't hate me because I'm talented."

"I don't. I hate you because you won't stop telling me about it. None of that is intel, Dean, it was just you letting a pretty, rather sweet but slighty air-headed girl run off at the mouth so she'd keep massaging you." Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'll try to get more background on Alfonso's grandmother."

"She sure looks like a witch should," nodded Dean, "I mean, that beard would put Bobby's to shame. Anyway, how's the _wording_ going?" he asked slyly.

"Stay the hell away from my phone," Sam snapped primly, "Keep your suggestive vocabulary to yourself."

"That good, huh?" Dean beamed happily. "She sounds like a nice girl, Sam. Cindy says she's sweet, but doesn't get out and socialise much. Smart. Could've gone to college, but decided not to. She's just your type, Sam; I think I'd trust her to juggle your balls."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Will you shut up?"

"We should probably go and have a run-through," Dean changed topic airily, "Gabriel and Lucifer and I have been discussing a new trick!"

Lucifer and Gabriel nodded. "The audience clearly enjoyed participating," noted the Chihuahua, "So we thought we could add something to the act."

"If it involves any sort of seat-sniffing, crotch-sniffing, or even pantomiming attempts to remove ladies' undergarments, I forbid it," Sam said sternly.

Three pairs of disappointed eyes gazed at him forlornly.

"I need more coffee," Sam glared at them, "And the Horsemen's rings. I gotta get that Cage open again."

"No!" whined Lucifer, "You cannot! I have so much yet to learn from the Wise Ass! Don't throw me back into the Cage, Sam!"

"It's not for you," Sam replied trenchantly, "I'm going to jump in and lock it behind me."

He felt a tug at the leg of his jeans. It was Michael, gazing up at him with imploring puggy eyes.

"May I come with you?" he asked.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam watched the jugglers carefully that night, and Alfonso's act as well, on the alert for any clues indicating the involvement of an evil spell. He steeled himself for the appearance of the clowns, and with the solid and reassuring presence of his big brother beside him, Jimi growling protectively at their bizarre little car, and the archpooches clustered around for moral support, he hardly hyperventilated at all and only had to sit with his head between his knees for three minutes.

Their act went off without a hitch, even if Gabriel and Lucifer did get in some surreptitious sniffing when they got to the run-away-into-the-audience bit. The crowd laughed, and clapped, and cheered the archcanines' antics, and the little dogs barked their happiness as they took their bows.

Even more people wanted to meet and be photographed with the Counterterrierists this time, both the dogs and Dean in his dog suit, so Sam left them to it and slipped away. He was tired, and hoped that if he got to the trailer first Dean wouldn't have an opportunity to put a sock on the door.

He was so wrapped up in thinking about the case that he almost didn't notice Sophie as she stepped out from behind a trailer.

"Aie!" he yelped, then relaxed when he saw who it was. "Oh, hi, Sophie," he smiled, "We have to stop meeting like this."

"At least I'm not carrying anything," she smiled back. "You're not doing the photo call with the fidos?"

"It's not really my thing," Sam explained, "I was just gonna head back, and have a beer. Um," he blushed, "Would you like to join me?"

Sophie put a hand on his arm, and smiled wider. "I'd like that," she answered.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

What is a miracle?

Something unexpected, inexplicable, a seemingly divine intervention that may be the answer to someone's wishes.

When he got back to their trailer and saw the sock on the door, Dean rolled his eyes to the stars.

"Don't think I'm praying to You, because You're still a deadbeat absentee dad, and a lousy caretaker, and Your timing sucks, and I totally have not forgiven You," he humphed gruffly, "But... thanks."

* * *

Oh my goodness, what a long one (as the actress said to the bishop)...

_**SHAMELESS PLUG SHAMELESS PLUG SHAMELESS PLUG**_

Incidentally, if you're waiting for the next chapter and haven't read my one-shot 'Advanced Placement', please do check it out whilst I wait for the bunny to strike once more.

_**END OF SHAMELESS PLUG**_

So, next chapter, who wants a Winchester In Peril?

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Playing A Risque Game Of Words With Friends With You On The Cell Phone Of Life!


	19. Chapter 18

Okay, everybody, calm down. Sophie is not evil. She and Sam are enjoying fun times between informed consenting adults. She has no unreasonable expectations. They are taking precautions. She is not going to fall victim to the Tragic Dick Of Death. In a year or so, she will actually go back to school, after she graduates she will get married, and have kids, one day her business acumen will save the circus, and she'll live to start training up her great-grandchildren. Strangely enough, she and Sam will stay in casual contact, and from time to time will play Words with Friends or its equivalent for the next forty years.

And she is genuinely ignorant as to the ingredients of Grandma Jefferson's meatloaf. For now, anyway...

FFN seems to be handling punctuation again, so hopefully the phrasing in this chapter will be better now. (I nearly fainted when I saw what it did to the last one; my English teacher would have strung me up by the participles if she'd seen it.)

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

What is tact?

The answer to that is: it depends.

It's the form of social diplomacy that prompts people to avoid giving offence, ruffling feathers, or embarrassing or discomfiting others in day to day life. It can be as complex as broaching the delicate subject of nuclear disarmament. It can be as simple as not asking about an ex partner, not mentioning a sudden skin breakout, not mentioning that unfortunate incident with Aunt Angela's ashes, or not serving up a huge wedge of black forest cake for morning tea to somebody who is desperately trying to do something about a weight problem. It's choosing your words with the intent of not making anybody squirm, blush, cry, want to break your face or launch missiles at you.

The strange thing about tact is that it can be unpredictably intermittent in one individual. One person can tactfully dish up crudités and low-fat hommus for morning tea nibbles, then laughingly recall the look on Uncle Ernie's face when the wind changed. One person can completely ignore the volcanic eruption where Mount Zit looks set to drown the surrounding chin in molten pus at any second, yet blithely mention that Evan turned up at the café yesterday, he looks well, is that his new girlfriend?

Dean Winchester can stay lying out of sight in the back seat of the Impala, feigning sleep, while Sam says goodbye to the young lady he's spent the night with, then the moment she's headed back to her own trailer and out of sight he can be bombarding his baby brother with prurient questions...

"So, I know she's a juggler, but, how flexible was she?" Dean's eyebrows waggled so hard Sam half expected them to crawl right off his face. "And she's gotta have stamina, so at least two rounds, I hope."

"Dean," Sam gave his brother a triple-strength Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "I do NOT want to discuss it."

"Come on, Sam, you got laid!" Dean enthused, "This is an event that requires celebration! Let's go get breakfast! It's on me! All the scrambled egg whites and poached lettuce you can eat, bro, and you can tell me all about it."

"There's nothing to discuss, unless you want to talk about the case," Sam scowled. "You want prurient details, go surf porn or something."

"Nothing to...? Sam, my baby bro got some!" declared Dean. "Of COURSE I want details! I want to know what she did! I want to know how she did it! I want to know about the noises she made! I want to know if she had a really great ass! If the little bumps around her nipples spell out 'Kiss me, big boy' in Braille, I demand to know about it..."

"DEAN!" snapped Sam, "SHUT! UP!"

Dean cocked his head. "How can you be so bitchy when you've just got laid?" he asked. "She didn't do anything that frightened you, did she? She didn't bring toys? Or... she didn't make you leave the light on, did she? Sam, did that bitch make you cry your way through sex?"

"You'd know for yourself," commented Gabriel, "If you'd just given me your phone and let me in the door to get footage for you like I offered."

"Your choice of partner was prudent," Raphael opined, "If a woman has a really great ass, she may also be privy to great wisdom."

"Ignore your older brother in these matters," suggested Lucifer dismissively, "I know I do. Write her a letter, recounting your satisfaction with your encounter, and encouraging her to write back to you, then I'm sure we'd all be interested to hear your read it out."

"If I concentrate very, very hard," Michael told Sam, "It is possible that I may just be able to manage a very, very small smite."

"All of them?" asked Sam plaintively.

Michael looked thoughtful. "No," he replied regretfully. "Perhaps I could smite one of them, then bite the others quite hard?" he offered.

"You've inspired me, bucko!" Gabriel grinned happily, "I think I'll call on Lursa and B'Etor again, remind them what they're missing out on."

Raphael looked confused. "The last time you approached them, they threatened to tear your tail off, eat your ears, separate your legs from your body, show you your own innards, and then get really nasty."

"Now, you see, if you were less stuck-up and spent a bit more time with humans, you'd know that Trekkie lore clearly indicates that Klingons like it rough," Gabriel was grinning unrepentantly. "Lower the shields, I'm going on an away mission!" Beam me out, Deano!"

Dean let Gabriel out of the trailer.

"Is that a good idea?" Sam said doubtfully. "Won't their Father be a bit annoyed if we let one of his sons get torn to pieces by discerning Dobermans?"

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Sam, we all gotta die of something," he intoned wisely. "Dying of Women is an honourable way to expire. And he'll die with a beautiful smile and a raging hard-on. Let's go eat. Gotta get you replenished in case Sophie wants to juggle your balls again tonight."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Over breakfast, they worked out a plan.

"It's Friday," Sam noted, "So, if Grandma Jefferson is cooking up Lung Loaf, she'll be doing it tonight. We should check it out."

"If it's Alfonso's nonna, we don't want to tip her off," Dean added, "So we'll check them both at once. I'll take the J-Man with me to check out the Jefferson catering, and you can take Il Divo and the gleesome threesome to check out Grandma Beardo." He took in the look on Sam's face. "Don't look at me like that – you can't do the Jefferson's, you'll worry about Sophie, I know how your brain works."

"She's not in on it," Sam said emphatically, "I just know she's not. If her grandmother is the one who's killing people for their lungs, Sophie isn't in on it. I don't want her caught in any cross-fire."

"Neither do I," Dean agreed, "Which is why I'll find some pretext to get her and any other civilians out of there before I deal with grandma. Anyway, you have the perfect cover. You can claim you want to talk to Nonna about taking up training as a strongman."

Sam's eyes bugged as he choked on a mouthful of coffee. "Who told you about that?" he demanded.

"Several people," Dean smirked at him, "Including Cindy. The circus is one large family, remember? Nobody has any secrets. Seems you made quite an impression on Darth Nonna. Just think, you could be her next evil apprentice! Darth Bitch! Darth Sideburns! Darth Salad! Darth Complete Girl!"

"Dean..."

"You'd look great in the leotard, you know."

"I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was just on dusk as the Winchesters and their respective canine accomplices set off to discover who the evil witch was.

Dean headed for the Jeffersons' trailers. Most of the family was preparing for the night's performance, and he was quickly able to ascertain that the only person present was the grandmother. Peeking carefully through a window, Dean saw that she was in the midst of food preparation.

A careful and silent break-in at the other end of the trailer turned up what he was looking for faster than he'd anticipated. A heavy laquered box, clearly an aged artifact, draped with a cloth embroidered with detailed occult symbols. It had matching candles on either side of it, an ornate knife and an intricately etched goblet on top of it, and a number of small but potent charms in front of it. He felt a pang of sympathy for Sam; this would be hard on his baby brother, because they were going to have to do something that would upset a girl he was clearly becoming fond of.

He made his way around to the front end of the trailer, and slipped through the door.

Grandma Jefferson looked up when she heard him. "Oh, hello, dear," she smiled, peering at him closely. "I'm sorry, my sight isn't what it used to be. It's Dean, isn't it? Dean from The Counterterrierists?"

"Yeah, Mrs Jefferson, it's Dean," he replied, reaching carefully for his gun as he took note of the chopping board where she was dicing up something raw and bloody.

"You're a breath of fresh air, dear," she went on with her slicing and dicing, still smiling, "Your act, superb, just superb. That sort of rapport between handlers and animals just can't be taught. You have a real talent, you boys. So, what can I do for you?"

"I'm here to talk to you about your meatloaf," he said, "And your... extra-curricular activities."

Grandma Jefferson laughed out loud. "Oh, no you don't!" she wagged a finger at him playfully, "I am not giving you my recipe! Although," she dropped her voice conspiratorially, "I will tell you that one of the ingredients is... Coca Cola!"

"What?" Dean felt his jaw drop. She picked up a half-emptied bottle.

"It was sold as a medicine in the nineteenth century," she told him, "My great-great grandmother used to buy it for a nickel a bottle. Had it prescribed as a slimming aid, of all things! She spilled a bottle one day while she was preparing the Friday leftovers, and, well, you sure didn't throw food out, so she just went ahead and cooked it. Found that her family complimented her on the taste. She developed the Friday Meatloaf recipe from there."

"Friday leftovers?" Dean echoed dubiously.

Grandma Jefferson nodded. "Circus life could be hard, then," she told him, "Harder than it is now. Weekends did the best business, brought in the best money, so by Friday, if the money was going to run out, that would be when, so Friday dinner would be anything they could scrape together." she shrugged. "Circus women learned how to cook anything that was cheap. Like this." She gestured to the chopping board. "Liver and tongue. The cheapest part of the beast, back then, if it wasn't just thrown away altogether. Very nutritious. O' course, lots of people don't like it, or think they don't like it, so dressing it up with Goody Jefferson's secret recipe helps. It's more of a tradition than a necessity now, but the youngsters do love it, and it's so much better for them than the junk kids have shoved at them these days. If you like your offal, you should ask Nonna Martello; she'll be cooking her Friday special, lamb lung wrapped in prosciutto and cooked in tomato and onion sauce. It's the only way she can get Alfonso to eat offal, even though it's so good for him."

Dean stared at the offal on the chopping board.

"But...you have an altar," he blurted out.

Grandma Jefferson didn't even pause. "Of course, dear," she said, "I wouldn't be much of a witch without an altar. I thought that's why you've come to see me. So, what can I help you with? It can't be a love potion, or anything after dark," she grinned mischievously, "I do hear tell that neither of you boys have any difficulties in that department. I'm best with locations, small mechanical matters and protection charms. If it's something to do with your health, you'd be better seeing Nonna Martello, or if it's your dogs, Rhonda is very good with animals."

"You're... you're all witches?" Dean didn't believe what he was hearing.

She turned to him with a kindly expression. "This is the circus, Dean," she told him patiently. "The circus is a place where magic happens. It's called hiding in plain sight." She tipped finely chopped liver and tongue into the meatloaf mix. "Now, I must just get this in the oven, then if you like, you can tell me..."

When she looked up, Dean was gone.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

One of Dad's rules of Hunting had always been, _Make sure your head is in the game._ (Incidentally, it was also one of Dean's rules of Women.) Sam knew that he had a job to concentrate on, but his thoughts kept straying back to Sophie, hoping that if it was her grandmother casting the levitation spell, Dean would find a way to deal with it and make everything all right in the way he so often managed to. And if he didn't, the Impala was packed and ready to go if Dean had to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. If his cell buzzed, he wouldn't even take the time to answer it, he'd head straight back to the car, probably grabbing up the two smallest archpooches to cover the ground more quickly...

"I can smell offal," Michael whuffed, breaking into his thoughts.

"Well, we're nearly at the Martello's trailer," Sam pointed out, "So if Nonna is cooking up evil lung casserole, the scent will be carrying."

"It's not just offal," Michael went on, flat little nose quivering, "There's something else."

"Something else?" Sam pressed.

Four little noses lifted to the breeze.

"I smell... iniquity," declared Raphael.

"Where? Where's it coming from?" Sam asked urgently. "Alfonso's trailer is this way."

"It's not coming from that way," Raphael insisted, turning his head to and fro, casting for the scent. "It's coming from... over there."

Sam followed the archcanines as they wove in and out of tents, trailers and piles of equipment.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked them.

"It keeps... it is as if someone has tried to cover their activities," whined Lucifer.

"Cast a glamour, perhaps, to disguise their sins from scrying," nodded Raphael.

Sam decided to call Dean to report what the dogs had found. He was about to hit the speed dial, when the flap of a nearby tend was thrown back, and a cheerful figure stepped out.

"Ah!" declared the middle-aged man, "It's five-sixths of The Counterterrierists! I'm Ramone. You'd be Sam, right?"

Sam stared. The man who'd introduced himself as Ramone was dressed in a floppy shirt, chequered pants, and a bright green hat to match his bright green wig. His face was covered with garish make-up, and he had a large red blob in the middle of his face.

Ramone was a clown.

"You... you... yeeergdbl," Sam wheezed, eyes bugging and face draining of colour. He froze, and his phone slid from his nerveless fingers.

Ramone didn't seem to notice Sam's discomfiture. He extended a hand encased in an oversized glittery glove, and grabbed Sam's hand when the younger Winchester was too shocked to pull it out of the way. "I love your act. Marvellous, just marvellous! Your brother has a real talent for slapstick, and you, your timing is perfect! You're one of nature's straight men!"

"Fleeeezlgrmf," was all Sam could squeak out. He was starting to feel dizzy, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Have you ever thought of donning the greasepaint?" Ramone went on. "Your height is something you could really use. I can see you as a deadpan. In fact, I'm pretty sure that we have a costume that would fit you perfectly!" He put a friendly hand on Sam's arm, steering him into the tent. "Why don't you come on in and have a try?"

Before he knew what was happening, Sam was inside a tent with several more clowns. His head was swimming. He knew he should call Dean, but he seemed to be paralysed, because hey, he was_ in a tent full of clowns..._

"Glaaaarbzprrrrrd," he garbled, feeling his knees begin to shake. The archcanines must've picked up on it, because they closed in around his feet.

"They're just clowns, Sam," murmured Michael, "Just people dressed up."

A female clown rolled over to him on a unicycle. "Oh, hello!" she chirped brightly, "I scent new talent!" She plucked the squishy rubber nose from her face, and waved it at Sam's face. "Oh, yes, I smell talent! I smell great comic timing!" She dismounted from the unicycle, and waved her nose at the four small dogs. "Oh, now I smell adorable!"

"You'll be smelling the insides of my insides if you keep shoving that thing in my face," growled Gabriel.

"Come now, Daphne," laughed Ramone, "Don't frighten the dogs. Look, they think you're going to eat them all up!" He grinned as the four canines glared at him, then gave Sam a calculating look. "What else do you smell, Daphne?" he asked.

Daphne giggled, then waved her nose. "I smell... coulrophobia?" she winked at Sam. "I smell... Hunter. You were right, Ramone." She waved her nose some more. "Oh, this is precious," she cooed, "I smell... unbaptised."

"How very fortuitous!" exclaimed Ramone, as the other grinning clowns closed in around Sam.

"You... you... clowns..." Sam swallowed hard, "Killing... lungs... spell..."

Ramone spread his hands wide. "But of course!" he grinned. "You try walking in these shoes for any length of time, or juggling with these goofy gloves on, or keeping your fright wig suitably frightened. And don't get me started on riding those damned bikes. We need all the help we can get, son, and a levitation spell is just the thing. And we were about to run out. But fortunately for us, you've come along to help us!"

"Don't you touch him!" snarled Michael, baring his teeth and attacking Ramone's leg. The other canines took their cue from their oldest brother, and went savagely for the nearest available shin.

"I told you, just adorable!" Daphne laughed, picking a squirming Lucifer up by the scruff of his neck and depositing him into a painted barrel decorated with flowers, as he barked and growled at her. Sam watched as, one by one, the dogs were pulled from trouser legs and deposited in the barrel.

He knew he should've put up a fight, knew he should've prioritised getting away, but, but, but they were_ clowns_, they were _evil clowns_, and they were _all around him_ and grabbing at him with their horrible shiny gloves and they were laughing and laughing and laughing and he just wanted Dean...

They didn't stop laughing as they tied his hands, gagged him and shoehorned him into the tiny little car they drove into the ring with. For Sam, it was like being stuffed into a brightly painted coffin. He concentrated on trying breathe evenly and slowly through his nose, but they were _clowns..._

"I do hope you don't have claustrophobia to go with your coulrophobia," Ramone told him, "But we can't have you running around trying to stop us while we set up the altar, especially you being a Hunter and all. I suppose we'll have to deal with that brother of yours, too..."

A desperate noise came from inside the car.

"Don't worry, he won't feel a thing," Ramone reassured him. "We've dealt with Hunters before. Pesky things, you are! Tell you what, though, I'm going to try to retrain those rats of yours. They're a real crowd pleaser." He paused. "Maybe when we've cut out your lungs, I'll make dog treats out of your liver. Never have met a dog who could resist liver. They'll do anything for liver."

Ramone stood. "I'll be back soon, Sam the Hunter," he laughed, "Just hang tight. In this case, very tight." With a final chortle, he left.

Sam tried to think calm thoughts, and experimentally shrugged his shoulders. He was jammed into the tiny car good and tight. He could barely move enough to breathe, and that thought made a small cold knot of panic bloom in his stomach.

He wanted to get the archpooches out of their barrel, he wanted Sophie to be safe, he wanted to set fire to the tent with the clowns still in it...

And right then and there, what he really, _really_ wanted, was his big brother.

* * *

Oh noes! A Winchester In Peril! So, what's the verdict, does that count as Sam-In-A-Box? Your reviews definitely prodded the bunny back into action, and for that I thank you. It's damned annoying when a bunny clams up before a story is finished.

Reviews Are The Imperilled* Winchester Of Your Choice Stuffed Into The Clown Car Of Life!**

*Not _too_ imperilled, obviously. You can have them tied up if you want, shirtless if you must, and a bit roughed up and bruised and maybe just bleeding a little bit, enough to need careful tending but not enough to be gross. Concussed and confused and rambling about pretty warthogs on the waggling German surfboards, if that's your thang. *le sigh* Denizens; they're depraved, even if they do get shit done.

**Or, Castiel Pedalling Past Tootling On The Kazoo Of Life, if you prefer.


	20. Chapter 19

Oh, the Denizens do love a bit of Winchester In Peril, don't they? Well, let's get on with it.

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

What is teamwork? Remember that one?

Dropping four co-workers who may not nominally terribly fond of each other into a barrel far taller than any of them are might be intended to foster co-operation – in reality, you'd be more likely to get frustration, vocalisation, aggravation, altercation, threats of amputation or castration, which would lead to the corporation receiving condemnation and castigation, management spouting justification for purposes of self-preservation, calls for resignation, then litigation, recrimination and disputation over compensation for violation, while all further such events underwent cancellation, and for complete renovation and reformation of the organisation. All around discombobulation.

The awesome foursome, however, didn't have time for big words. They had to act.

"Stop them! Stop them!" Lucifer bounced up and down, yapping his anger, "They intend to kill him!"

"We must stop them!" echoed Michael, whining in distress, "Brothers, we must act!"

Raphael put his front paws on the wall of the barrel. "We must get out!" he yelped.

"Oh, really?" whuffed Gabriel irritably as one of Raphael's paws landed in his face, "Since when do you lot care what worthless mud monkeys do to each other?"

His three brothers paused, and looked sheepish.

"Sam is... he is obedient!" Michael yapped back, "He was obedient to Father's plan, and now he is obedient to Father's will once more! He does not deserve to die!" He glared at Lucifer. "And he can hold an intelligent conversation without mentioning fornication in every second sentence!"

"He is a sharer of pizza!" nodded Raphael, "And he gives good belly rubs, and dispenses liver treats generously. He may not realise it, but he follows the teachings of the Wise Ass, who is beloved of Father."

"He is..." Lucifer's ears drooped. "He is... all right. For a human. I suppose."

"Oh, how the worms turn," Gabriel gruffed. "So, we gotta work out how to go and get Dean and Jimi. Although," he peered forlornly up at the top of the barrel, "How we're supposed to do that I don't know. Unless we can hijack their levitation spell to get some altitude."

"Not the spell, no," mused Michael, looking thoughtfully up at the wall of the barrel, "But I believe we can gain enough altitude for one of us to get out. Raphael, if you can wiggle around towards me..." he braced his stance, and locked his knees. "Please be careful where you put your feet.""

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Even before he got to Alfonso's trailer, the Big Brother Within That Never Sleeps told Dean that something was off.

Nonna Martello received him cheerfully, tried to make him sit down and eat, prodded at him critically, cocked her head to one side and studied him, then declared that he would need some serious feeding up, but with her cooking and her training, she was pretty sure she could make a decent strongman of him, he could do an act with his brother, in fact she was preparing a dish that would put muscle on the frame and hair on the chest of any man, lamb lung in prosciutto, her little Alfonso was all the proof anyone needed as to its effectiveness, although he was still fussy about his food, had been since he was a baby, bless him, his parents had indulged him too much, oh, the tales she could tell about chubby little Alfonso throwing tantrums over his dinner...

As politely as he could, Dean declined feeding and training, and asked after Sam. No, he hadn't been to visit, she shrugged, although she wished he would, if Dean saw his brother, he should send him to her, because that boy needed feeding, both of them did, really, fine physiques like that needed proper fuel, animal protein, she'd seen Sam's lunch yesterday, did Dean know that his brother ate like a rabbit, and it was just like young men to ignore their own wellbeing like that, how anyone ever survived without a grandmother to look after them was beyond her, men were just like big babies really, and Cindy was a good-hearted girl, what Dean needed was a good woman to look after him and raise his children properly so they wouldn't grow up to be fussy eaters...

Thanking Nonna Martello for her time, Dean... fled is probably the right word.

Sam definitely hadn't been there. If he had, he would've arrived to find Nonna shovelling animal protein into him and upbraiding him for neglecting himself. He pulled out his cell and let it ring a couple of times, then headed back to the Impala, in the hope that Sam would show up.

When his brother didn't, he turned to Jimi, who watched him with big, worried eyes.

"We gotta find him, J-Man," Dean told the concerned face, "I need you to use that schnozz of yours. Find Sam! Find Sam, Jimi! Where's Sam? Where's Sam? Find Sam!"

Jimi turned his nose to the air, casting. He whined in confusion, and set off uncertainly.

When Jimi couldn't track him straight to Sam – finding one or the other of them on command was a game that Ronnie had taught them to play with Jimi when he was a pup – Dean realised that the Big Brother Within That Never Sleeps had been right. Something really was wrong.

He tried his phone again, but it rang until it went through to voicemail. Swearing, he mentally started to map out a search grid, when he heard a faint but insistent barking.

"What the...?" he muttered to himself as Jimi barked in reply, then set off towards the bark with Dean in hot pursuit.

When he caught up with his dog, Dean found Lucifer, sprawled on the ground with his flanks heaving, while Jimi licked anxiously at the Chihuahua.

"Sam..." Lucifer gasped, barely audible, "They... Sam... brothers... gaaaah..."

"Whoa, whoa, take some deep breaths, little dude," Dean knelt by the archpooch and curbed his impatience. "Get your breath back."

Lucifer nodded, and gulped down air. When he could breathe more easily, he tried again.

"Clowns," he whined, "It's the clowns. They have my brothers, and they have Sam, they want to use his lungs because he's unbaptised." He filled in details as quickly as he could; the clowns had overpowered Sam, but Lucifer didn't know what they'd done with him because the small dogs had been dropped in a barrel, and it was only by using the stack trick and an extra boost from Gabriel that he alone had been able to scramble his way out to raise the alarm.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Come on," he growled, picking up Lucifer and snuggling him into an elbow, "Tell me where."

"That way," Lucifer pointed with his nose. "There are at least seven of them," he whimpered, "What are we going to do?"

Dean's smile was predatory. "We are gonna melt us some greasepaint," he said grimly. "We are gonna break some red noses, and frighten some fright wigs, and generally kick some clowny asses."

"I wish I could smite," panted Lucifer. He thought for a moment. "Although I don't think they had any donkeys, and if they did, I cannot condone physical violence against them. Let us concentrate on the evil humans."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The striped tent looked much like most of the others clustered around the big top, but it was unlikely that any of the others had the sounds of hushed chanting coming from them.

Jimi sniffed intently around the tent, finally coming to a stop and pawing at the canvas. With gun drawn, Dean carefully lifted the heavy fabric, and peeked under.

It seemed to be a section used to store clown props. There were the square-wheeled bicycles, boxes of juggling clubs, a satanic-looking rubber chicken on a stick, and the creepy little car that the clowns used. Dean suppressed a shudder. Maybe Sam has a point, maybe clowns were just _wrong_ on a very fundamental level...

Silently, he eased himself inside, then held the canvas up for Lucifer to follow him, then Jimi squeezed his bulk through. The chanting was louder in here. Dean inched towards the sound to get a look at what was going on, when Jimi made his way directly to the horrible little car, and nosed at it frantically.

"Hey, you can piss on it and set it on fire on the way, out, okay?" Dean shushed at him in a whisper, but Jimi wouldn't let up. "Come on, J-Man, this is not time to be going looking for new chew toys."

Jimi whined softly.

A soft but definite _thump_ sounded from inside the car.

"What?..." bemused, Dean made his way over to see what his dog was worrying at.

_Thump_

A horrible premonition settled in his gut.

_Thump_

Dean drew his knife and used the hilt to break the latches on the side of the creepy car, and pulled the plywood away.

His baby brother's frightened but relieved eyes stared at him from where he was crammed into the impossibly tiny space inside.

"Sam!" Dean hissed in a combination of relief and rage. Tamping down on the urge to kill whoever had done this to his brother, he carefully wiggled an arm as far behind Sam as he could. "Take it easy, bro," he whispered, using his other hand to pull the rag from Sam's mouth and cut the rope from his wrists, "I'm here, I gotcha."

"Dean," Sam mumbled. "Hurts..."

"It's okay, just, just let's get you out," Dean reassured him, "It'll all be better once we get you out."

As carefully as he could, he pulled sideways, until Sam popped out of the car like jelly from a mould, and apparently with about the same control over his limbs.

"Ow," said Sam.

"It's okay," Dean repeated, "We just gotta gank us some evil clowns, save us some doggy angels, then we'll fix you right up, all in a day's work for us, right?" Sam gave him a wobbly little smile, and nodded. "Okay. You just stay here for a minute, Jimi and Lucifer will deal with Bozo and friends..."

Behind them, Jimi growled.

"Oh, well done!" laughed one of the clowns. "Just like Leia come to get Han out of the carbonite!"

"He's certainly pretty enough," purred the female clown beside him, toying with her red honky nose, "I'd love to see him in a gold bikini!"

"That's Ramone," Lucifer growled, "He is leader of the coven. Daphne to his left is also powerful."

"Which must make you a fat, slimy, evil Hutt," snarled Dean.

"Yesssss, a gold bikini," giggled Daphne, "Can I keep him chained to my bed?"

"Only if you want to get strangled with the chain," snapped Dean. Sam clutched weakly at his arm.

"Oh, you!" Ramone laughed, "Hunters, they're all the same, aren't they? Evil this, evil that, kill kill kill. I've seen your act, Dean, how can anyone with such comic talent possibly be so humourless?"

Daphne plucked off her nose, stepped forward, and waved it at Dean. "I smell baptism," she said in a disappointed tone. "He's no use." She turned large wistful eyes to Ramone. "Are you sure I can't chain him to my bed?" she wheedled. "Just for a little while? Pleeeeease?"

"Now, Daphne, priorities," Ramone wagged a finger at her as the other clowns laughed, "Let us deal with the business at hand first, then we shall see what may be done with Dean. Up and at 'em, Sam, your big moment is here!"

"Don't you touch him!" shouted Dean, surging to his feet. "Touch him and you are dead!"

With a disappointed pout, Daphne waved a hand. Dean felt the force hit him in the chest, and it lifted him off his feet and threw him against a box of props.

"Dean!" called Sam, in a voice that sounded to Dean like three-year-old Sammy calling for his big brother. Lucifer darted forwards to lick anxiously at Dean's face as he groaned, and rolled over, winded.

"Don't... touch... him," he wheezed.

"How did you get out?" Ramone frowned at the Chihuahua. "Not surprising, I suppose," he answered his own question, "Chihuahas are more like rats than dogs, and rats can run up walls. "Kill him," he gestured carelessly to Dean, "Bring him," he jerked a thumb at Sam, "And squash... that," he indicated Lucifer.

Two heavily built clowns stepped towards Sam, but Jimi growled, and put himself between them and Sam.

"Er, what about that one?" one of the clowns asked, eyeing Jimi warily.

"Daphne, deal with it," snapped Ramone, suddenly businesslike, "We have a ritual to complete."

Daphne giggled. "What an act this would be, a flying dog!" She waved a hand at Jimi.

Then stared in confusion when the dog didn't even flinch.

Witch and half-Hellhound stared at each other in curiosity. Carefully, Daphne held her nose out, and approached Jimi.

"I smell..." she began, uncertainly, "I smell... Ramone, I smell... no... " Her voice trailed off into a horrified whisper.

"Get used to it," Dean let out a rasping, wheezing chuckle, "It's where you're going."

Daphne screamed.

Jimi surged forward, eyes glowing red and hellteeth like knives bristling, and neatly snapped through her neck.

Chaos erupted.

Dean rolled to his feet as the clowns' frozen astonishment turned to anger. Punches were thrown. Long, wicked knives were drawn.

Dean shot two of them before the gun was knocked from his hand. At his side, Jimi tore the arm from another, before going for the throat to complete the kill, then turning to savage a knife-wielding female. But they were outnumbered. One of the heavyset clowns threw a punch that connected squarely with Dean's jaw, and sent him to his knees. Looking up, dazed, he saw the clown smile cruelly in triumph, and raise his large knife.

A shot sounded and a small red hole appeared in the stark white of the clown's forehead.

Dean looked around; Sam sprawled with Dean's gun in his hand, and offered his big brother a weak smile.

"Thanks, bro," Dean grinned, hefting his own knife and parrying another attack.

Unnoticed, Lucifer shot through the tangle of legs into the main tent area, barking urgently.

"Brothers! Brothers!" he called.

"We are here!" came Michael's muffled bark from the barrel, "What is happening?"

"Dean is here! He and Jimi are... no!" yelped Lucifer, noticing Ramone slip quietly from the tent. "He is getting away!"

"Stop him!" howled Raphael.

"Get us out!" yelped Gabriel.

Lucifer looked around desperately. There was nothing he could do in such a small body...

His eyes fell on the altar the clowns had set up. It appeared to be made of the large, colourful blocks they used in their act.

He started to run.

He did a lap of the tent to get up to full speed, then bounded up onto the altar without slowing. Reaching the very top, he launched himself into the air...

And hit the top of the barrel like a small, determined missile.

The barrel rocked once, twice, and then, with some jumping from the dogs inside, fell over.

There was a brief whuffing reunion as they picked themselves up and nosed at Lucifer.

"Are you unharmed, brother?" Michael asked anxiously.

"Yes! Yes!" gruffed Lucifer, "We must stop the head of the coven! He went that way!"

"Follow the smell of iniquity!" declared Raphael, nose in the air as he sprinted from the tent.

"All right!" barked Gabriel, "If it bleeds we can kill it! I'm gonna have me some fun! I'm gonna have me some fun! I'm gonna have me some fun! Let's smite this sonofabitch!"

The four archcanines set off after Ramone.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ramone had been in the circus and the Craft for a long time. He hadn't stayed undetected for as long as he had by being stupid; he knew when to make a graceful strategic withdrawal.

Chances were, the coven would deal with the older Winchester and the Rottweiler, then the survivors could summon him back, he would perform the spell, they'd do damage control and dispose of the evidence. Losing Daphne was a blow – she was a powerful practitioner, if somewhat mentally unbalanced, but she was a sacrifice he was prepared to make.

If somehow the Winchesters did prevail, he was safely out of the way, and would escape, lie low for a while, then live to fight another day. The loss of the grimoire would be a shame, but he had completed the ritual so many times that he had no doubt he could reconstruct it. It would take time to assume a new identity, a new persona, and pull together a new coven and a new act, but he would survive, and thrive. For him, it was a win-win situation.

He cut straight through the circus to his own trailer – he had to give that daft old donkey a sound slap to get her to move out of his way – and was just taking a final bag from his trailer when he heard the small growl, and turned to see the four small dogs glaring at him. The Chihuahua spun around in a circle, unable to contain his energy.

The overall effect was absolutely comically adorable.

Ramone cocked his head. "You lot are smart," he decided, "I think I will take you with me. Even if I don't use you as an act, I can whip you into shape and sell you on." He threw the bag into his car, then reached for the Pug.

It growled and bared its teeth. _Thou shalt not do murder. It is my Father's law. Murderer! Unrepentant sinner!_

The Chihuahua stopped spinning, and stood beside the Pug. _Things_ _like you pollute my Father's magnificent Creation! You are less worthy than the humblest ass! __And__ you put my brothers in a barrel!_

The French Bulldog shouldered the Chihuahua out of the way, positively slavering. _You hit the donkey! You HIT the donkey! She is wise beyond your comprehension, oh, you worthless wretch! Coward! Vicious, cowardly sinner!_

The Jack Russell merely put a doggy smile on its face. _In case you haven't been following the story, this is the point where you kiss your ass goodbye. What? No, Raphael, I am not suggesting that he embrace the donkey, although I agree he definitely owes her an apology..._

Ramone rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. He reached down to grab the Pug by the scruff.

The Chihuahua leaped for his face, and bit him hard on the nose.

"Aaaaaargh!" he yelped in surprise as much as pain. "You little... come here!"

He dropped the Pug, and grabbed for the Chihuahua.

The French Bulldog sank its teeth into his shin until it hit bone. Then the Jack Russell used the Bulldog as a stepping stone, jumped, bit at his groin, and hung on determinedly.

Ramone screamed, and went down like the sack of shit he was.

Four sets of small but righteously angry teeth smote him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Teamwork. In this case, it led to disarticulation, exsanguination, and, eventually, extermination, with absolutely no prospect of salvation. There was certainly righteous elation and exaltation afterwards. Lucifer did try for decapitation, but Michael gently reminded him that he was not Jimi. They heard the big dog just then, barking, calling them, seeking conformation of their location. As he approached, his tail wagged at the confirmation of their successful predation. He nuzzled them all affectionately, whuffing in congratulation, which didn't even draw a token protestation.

They headed back towards the clowns' tent to see what they could do to help Dean formulate an explanation, and assist with Sam's recovery after his extrication.

Really, thought Gabriel, it all called for some sort of celebration.

* * *

Winchesters safe but slightly roughed up, bad guys ganked, it's all good. The only question now is whether Sophie joins Dean to help with massaging life back into Sam's limbs (leahelisabeth is quite keen on that as part of the Sam-In-A-Box genre) - does she lend a gentle feminine touch to the proceedings, or is this one of those private no-chick-flicks-I-do-this-instead moment between brothers? Whaddyareckon?

Reviews are the Barrel Of Archcanines Chasing Down The People You Can't Stand in the Circus Of Life!


	21. Chapter 20

OMG This story now officially has the highest number of reviews one of my stories has ever got! *sa-woon* The Denizens, they are so naise to me. Might it crack... (hushed whisper)... 400?

_**Warning**_**: **This chapter contains traces of brotherly schmoop; it's not my forte, but Leahelisabeth wanted it (all part of the Sam-In-A-Box idiom, apparenty). If you don't like, it's ALL HER FAULT...

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

What is brotherly love?

The answer to that is...

Look, it's complicated, and on the face of it doesn't always make a lot of sense.

Brotherly love is described in philosophy as being an unfeigned love for one's kin. Science describes it as a manifestation of the ancient instinct to protect the wellbeing of the pack as a whole, even unto the cost of an individual's life, in order for those selfish little bits of code, the genes, to be passed on to progeny, and thence posterity. Throwing intelligent self-awareness into the mix complicates things enormously. You only have to look at the interactions of brothers who are usually deemed to get along well to see that.

Especially if you're looking at the poster boys for complicated familial relations who occupied that borrowed trailer.

It's either kind of sad, or kind of hilarious, that the only one in that trailer who has something approaching what might be called a 'normal' relationship with his siblings is Jimi. And he never even met his father.

If an intergalactic student of sentient behaviours arrived, perhaps from Planet Frood, to look at brotherly interactions in certain parts of the Western world, he or she would probably be initially bewildered, even after having spent some time preparing a literature review prior to undertaking field work:

'The ground-breaking work of B'goola et al. (23,455.1a) is generally accepted as the working basis for describing much of North-Western sentients' interactions between male siblings. This has been expressed in general but succinct terms in B'goola and Therban's Paradox,which states: 'The more brothers really care for each other, the more they seem to try to avoid demonstrating that care while making it manifest' (B'goola and Therban, 23,678). This was elaborated in Gleergl's Corollary: 'The more affection they feel for each other, the less likely they are to express that affection in typically affectionate ways, such as demonstrative physical contact or verbal expression' (Gleergl and B'goola, 23,721a). Later work suggested strongly that the disparity of ages of sequential siblings, which is usual in this species due to the prevalence of uniparous incubations (Dergle and Mingax, 22,989a), often has consequences for later interactions between brothers. The complexities of the 'senior brother' and 'junior brother' relationship are only just now beginning to be unravelled, and are turning out to be far more complex that the echo of the male progenitor – offspring relationship suggested by Oodef (23,772a). There may be an analogous sense of responsibility (Oodef 23,772b) and/or a sense of authority (Oodef and Stafflig, 23,775), which may find expression as concern for the welfare of the junior, which the junior brother may reject or welcome – the acceptance of this dynamic is now believed not to be so much as an absolute of one or the other, but to exist somewhere along a continuum between the two (Stafflig et al., 23,782).

This project will examine the expression of attachment between bonded senior and junior brothers through three major mechanisms: name-calling, physical altercation, and pranking. The aim of this project is to dissect the nuances via which these activities, which are more usually associated with adversaries, are used to indicate fondness and love between male siblings...'

(Which just goes to show that, across the universe, post-grads everywhere have eyes bigger than their candidature times and research budgets. The second universal reality of theses is that the finished product bears very little resemblance to what the initial proposal outlined, but because this is acknowledged everywhere, when such a candidate turned in a thesis entitled 'The Place Of The Plastic Spoon In Male Sibling Rivalry And Affection: Implications Of Electronic Social Media In Deviation From The Male Progenitor-Progeny Echo Model Of Relation', nobody would be at all surprised, and the post-grad would have learned a valuable lesson about biting off more than you can masticate.)

The practical demonstration of B'goola and Therban's Paradox that played out in that borrowed trailer would've had any Froodian sentient behaviouralist flapping their floopers in delight, sending s-mails frantically back to the Faculty with ideas for post-grads, and preparing their acceptance speech for the peer accolades that were sure to follow.

When the circus people heard the shots, they had come running to investigate. Dean gave a bare-bones explanation of what had happened, being concerned only with the fact that his traumatised baby brother, who appeared to have gone as limp as some of Nonna's linguini in the wake of his clown-car squishing, needed his attention. Grandma Jefferson, Rhonda the horse trainer and Nonna Martello examined the scene, and quickly ascertained what had been going on. Grandma Jefferson and Rhonda gasped in horror, then set about deactivating the altar. Nonna had gingerly picked up the thick, malevolent-looking grimoire that Ramone and his coven had been using, glanced at a couple of pages, then hissed in disgust. She made the sign of the horns over it to avert the omen, then tore it in half with her bare hands, spitting on the shredded tome before it was burned with all the clowns' occult paraphernalia.

Dean didn't care about any of that. All he cared about was looking after his Sammy, which required some serious big brother TLC, reassurance that he was there for his baby bro, and, in accordance with the principles of B'goola and Therban's Paradox, some merciless teasing.

"Now, don't you get any ideas, you perv," Dean instructed as he deposited Sam on one of the beds and started pulling his unresisting brother's jacket and overshirt off, while Sam watching him with an expression that made him look like a five-year-old whose big brother was carefully dabbing antiseptic onto a scraped knee, "I'd much rather be doing this with Cindy, and no matter how girly your hair is, there is no way I can pretend that your gigantic Sasquatch carcass is her."

"Deeeeeean," whined Sam, partly out of being compared to one of Dean's lady friends, and partly out of relief that his big brother was there to make everything better.

"Stow it, Francis," Dean gave Sam a small smile as he worked his brother's boots off, "Probably the best way to cope is if we both close our eyes, and I'll pretend you're Cindy, and you can pretend I'm Sophie. Oh, Sammikins," he went on in a falsetto tone, "Oh, let me run barefoot through your sideburns, can we leave the light on this time, pleeeeeese?"

"Jerk," mumbled Sam, collapsing obediently onto the bed when Dean pushed him gently. The four archcanines jumped onto the bed and snuggled into his sides.

"We shall perform heat pack therapy," announced Michael, "To speed your recovery."

Jimi whuffed quietly, and honked soothingly on Oinker Stoinker, while Dean did his best to massage some life back into Sam's limbs.

"Where are you sore, Sam?" asked Raphael solicitously.

"Everywhere," replied Sam. "Ow!"

"Your own fault for having such hairy legs, dude," Dean sniggered, massaging his way up Sam's calf. "Crap, this leg is seriously seized up. Heat pack therapy here, guys." Raphael scuttled to change position, and snuggled himself up against Sam's leg.

"You're making me smell funny," Sam whined.

"Maybe, but it works," Dean told him firmly, starting on the other leg, "Trust me. Cindy's mom mixed this batch up just for you, so you'll get massaged with it whether you like it or not."

"There's something weird about getting massaged by your big brother," Sam insisted. Dean stifled a smile; his little brother was practically pouting in token resistance to having his big brother take care of him.

"It could be worse," Dean warned him, "Nonna Martello tried to elbow her way in here, insisting that she could do this for you. Said she had to do all sorts of physical therapy for her husband as he got older and the strongman act got harder on his body. She's a scary lady, Sam. She has hands that could burst tennis balls. Hell, she has hands that could burst baseballs."

"She is not a lady I would want to cross," agreed Sam.

"Well, you're definitely on her good side," Dean informed him, working at a particularly resistant knot and making his little brother yelp, "Because she has left a dish of pasta and meat sauce for you, and given me strict instructions to make sure you eat it all." He glanced at the table, where several bowls and plates wafting delicious aromas had been left. The circus people were very grateful to the Winchesters, and decided to say it with food. Cindy and Sophie were running interference on the constant stream of visitors wanting to ask after Sam's welfare, telling everybody that he would be fine and just needed some time to rest and recover. "And Sophie made you a nice soothing hot chocolate. Says it's a wonderfully soothing brew, with a few pinches of spice in it."

Dean helped Sam sit up, and he sniffed at the hot drink. "It smells good," Sam ventured, "Smells like cinnamon, and nutmeg."

"Nonna said it would be good for you, too," Dean added, "And you don't want to piss her off. You'd better drink it."

Sam tasted it. It was delicious.

"You should try this," Sam waved the mug, "It's really good."

"Nah, I got Dr Daniels' Ethanol Based Cure For Everything," Dean smirked, producing a bottle of said elixir. "Now, lie down again, before I get Nonna in here to make you. Heat therapy detail, deploy!" The archcanines scuttled to snuggle up to a limb each.

"What about you?" asked Sam, "You're bleeding."

"It's just a scalp wound," Dean said dismissively, touching his forehead and seeing blood on his fingers, "You know what those are like, a tiny nick gushes like a geyser."

"I should look at it," insisted Sam, yawning.

"You can in a few minutes, once your chocolate has gone down," Dean told him. "I'll just get the first aid kit, okay?"

" 'K," mumbled Sam, his eyes drooping shut.

Dean headed to the Impala, and when he came back in, Sam was snoring gently. He grinned, and pulled the quilt over him. The archcanines rearranged themselves as Dean opened the kit and a small mirror, and began to dab at his wounds with peroxide, hissing occasionally.

"So, Sophie's hot chocolate seems to have done the trick," observed Gabriel.

"Kid's hated clowns forever," Dean replied, wincing. "He was really shaken up. A bit of rest will do him good."

"Uh-huh," nodded Gabriel. "And you didn't think to tell him that it was actually Nonna Martello who put the pinches of spices into his drink?"

"He didn't need to know that," Dean said dismissively, "What he needs is sleep."

Gabriel whuffed in amusement. "He's gonna pull the mother of all bitchfaces if he finds out you roofied him," he noted.

"Well, he won't find out unless somebody tells him," Dean answered equably, "And if you do, I will take you to the local veterinarian, Doc Woolley, lovely lady, and she will perform a little operation on you that is often performed on male dogs who demonstrate annoying behaviours, and will have you howling soprano for the rest of your mortal tenure."

"You wouldn't!" yipped Gabriel. "You wouldn't! You couldn't! My big brothers would protect me! You saw what we did to that Ramone goon? They won't just sit by and watch you have me mutilated!"

Michael looked thoughtful. "This operation would render him less annoying?" he pressed.

Raphael considered the idea. "It is an intriguing and, I must admit, somewhat tempting idea," he nodded.

Lucifer cocked his head. "She sounds like a most resourceful person," he opined, "If she can do what Father cannot. Perhaps there is more to humans that I have been prepared to believe."

Gabriel's ears drooped. "Guys?" he whined, "Guys? You're... you're kidding, right?"

"You can be really annoying, Gabriel," Dean pointed out. The little Jack Russell began to whimper.

"Oh, very well," humphed Michael. "Dean, should you try to render Gabriel less annoying, we will, as his big brothers, be forced to take action."

"Indeed," Raphael agreed, "We shall collaborate, and act in concert..."

"Ha!" barked Gabriel. "Suck on that, Winchester!"

"To sit on him, so that he does not escape," finished Lucifer.

Dean snorted in amusement as Gabriel glared at his brothers.

"I totally hate you all," he grumbled, settling against Sam's arm.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam woke up a couple of hours later, surrounded by gentle snoring. The archpooches were clustered along one side of him, and Jimi stretched out on the other. Dean was at the table, cleaning his favourite gun. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned, "How you feeling?"

"Better, I think," answered Sam, experimentally twisting his neck.

"Thanks to my awesome massage skills, and the heat pack team," Dean said, "I'll heat up your pasta. Actually, unless you're a small army, I think the rest of us might have to give you some help with it."

Sam sat up carefully to avoid disturbing the snoozing dogs. "What about tonight's performance?" he asked.

"The show must go on, but it's going on without us," Dean told him firmly. "And, I'm happy to say, without any evil levitating clowns."

"Why did it have to be clowns?" muttered Sam.

"Because the universe hates us, that's why," Dean answered.

Michael sat up and yawned. "You are awake, Sam," he commented, "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, thanks," replied Sam.

"We smote Ramone," yawned Lucifer, getting up and stretching.

"We did vent our righteous wrath on his worthless being," nodded Raphael.

"Rest assured, bucko, that piece of shit will never play the piano again," grinned Gabriel.

Dean dished up the excellent pasta that Nonna had prepared, put down dinner for the dogs, and had just settled back on the bench sofa with his bowl, when there was a sudden flap of trench coat.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel.

"Gaaaaah!" gurgled Dean, almost choking on a piece of meatball, "Cas, how many times can I say it? Personal! Space!"

"My apologies." The angel looked down at himself. "Dean, why did you fling a quantity of pasta at me?"

"How about because you scared the shit out of me by landing practically in my lap, genius?" griped Dean. "That was my dinner! That was Nonna Martello's pasta! You are wearing Nonna Martello's pasta, Cas! That's practically a crime against cuisine right there!"

"Again, my apologies for interrupting your dining." Castiel shrugged, his vessel was clean, and he handed the bowl of pasta back to Dean.

"I don't want to eat that after you've been wearing it," sulked Dean. With a barely perceptible sigh, the angel waved a hand. The bowl of pasta disappeared to be replaced by a plate containing a double cheese baconburger and fries. "All right!" Dean enthused, "Angels of the Lord rock!"

"Hello, little brother," Michael looked up from his dinner.

"Would you like to try some of this pasta?" Raphael enquired. "The business of ingestion is more... delightful than I would ever have believed possible. Have you tried it? If not, you must."

"I would be pleased to share with you," offered Lucifer, "As this vessel is quite small, and does not need so much. Nonna Martello is an exceptional human being, a very talented person."

"The Wise Ass would definitely approve," Raphael licked at Lucifer's ear affectionately.

"Yo, little bro," Gabriel gave him a doggy grin and licked meat sauce off his muzzle, "How's Dad managing? Has he been to see Danael yet? I'd love to be a cherub on the wall for that encounter..."

"Hi, Cas," Sam greeted their visitor, "What's up?"

"My Father – our Father – wanted me to let you know that He is most impressed with your tuition of His eldest children in the meaning of brotherhood," Castiel related, "And He sends His gratitude."

"No Vatican charge card then, huh?" asked Dean wistfully. "Didn't think so."

"As a result, He has asked me to call on my brothers," Castiel went on. "He feels that you have learned what you can from this outing, and that it is time for you to return to your angelic selves."

The four small dogs stared at him.

"But... not before we have finished our pasta, right?" said Raphael hopefully.

"Father says that it is up to you what you do next," Castiel told them, "But He will expect you to take your newfound insights into your future behaviour."

Sam looked at the four archcanines. "Perhaps you can take some time to think about what you do next, guys," he suggested, "There's no rush. After all, you're Archangels. You have the rest of forever."

"I would like... to stay long enough do one more act," said Lucifer slowly.

"I would like that too," agreed Michael, eyeing the contents of his bowl. "After so many people went to the trouble of preparing food for us, it would be rude not to eat it."

"It would be unappreciative of their efforts," nodded Raphael, "And I would like to speak with the Wise One once more."

"Hey, that gives me the chance to go talk to Lursa and B'Etor!" yapped Gabriel happily. "Third time's the charm!"

"Very well," nodded Castiel, "I shall relay your intentions to Father." He paused. "I think He is proud of you all," he added, smiling at his big brothers before disappearing in a flap of wings and a swirl of trench coat.

"Dear old Dad," sighed Gabriel, "You know, the first thing I'm gonna do when I get back home is polish up my trumpet. The acoustics in the Throne Room are really good."

"You dare sound that thing in there, and I will smite you," yapped Lucifer tartly. "I am not over-taxing my Grace again to restore the windows, and I doubt that I could charm the Choir, being so recently excused from Perdition."

"Hey! Hey!" yelped Gabriel. "We've only just been given our Grace back, and you're planning to smite me already? Michael! Raphael! You can't be prepared to let him do that!"

"Gabriel," Michael rolled his puggy eyes, "You so much as fly past the Throne Room holding your trumpet, and we will sit on you while he does it."

"Big brothers suck," muttered Gabriel.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Later that evening, Sophie came to the door to ask after Sam's wellbeing. Dean pushed the bottle of liniment into her hands, waggled his eyebrows at his blushing little brother, and said, "What he really needs is some... pleasurable exertion to stretch those muscles out." Then he grinned hugely, and went to find Cindy, with whom he found some pleasurable exertion of his own, including another go at the reciprocating force-out.

Jimi and the archpooches settled in the Impala for the night, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer deep in thought whilst Gabriel sought out the Dobermans. When he returned bruised, battered and grinning from ear to ear, all he'd say was, "I _told_ you, Klingons like it rough!"

They stayed one more day to perform as The Counterterrierists one more time, then the archcanines made preparations to depart as the Winchesters packed the Impala and readied to set out on their own next job.

"Goodbye then, Dean and Sam Winchester," intoned Michael. "We will take our leave now. This experience has given us... much to think about."

Dean paused. "I won't say it was nice working with you, because it wasn't," he told them, "As far as I'm concerned, you're a bunch of arrogant flying dicks who behave like spoiled children, power corrupts and all that, and if it was up to me, I'd drop you all into a vat of holy oil and light that bitch up."

"Gee, thanks for the pep talk, coach," snuffled Gabriel.

"Gabriel," warned Raphael, "Let it be. For as the Wise Ass explained, an opinion that has been formed on the basis of conduct cannot be reformed by further episodes of the same conduct."

" 'If someone doesn't like donkeys, kicking them won't improve matters'," nodded Lucifer.

"Well, so long, and, uh, good luck with the whole, you know, restoration of Grace thing," offered Sam. "I hope it all works out better for you, you know, the, er, family thing."

"Stay the fuck away from our planet, or we will find a way to end each and every one of you feathery bitches," added Dean.

"Very well," acknowledged Michael. As the Winchesters watched, the Pug, the French Bulldog and the Jack Russell Terrier began to glow, then dissolved in a sprinkling of light like spirals of rainbow fireflies.

"I wonder what they'll get up to," mused Sam.

"So long as they do it on the other side of the universe, I don't care," griped Dean, "Because if the..."

Lucifer remained, looking up at Sam.

"Samuel," he began uncertainly, "My brother Gabriel suggested that I get to know humans before passing judgement on them. Would you be prepared to offer me one last bit of assistance?"

* * *

Nearly there, just an Epilogue to go. And possibly, a visit from a certain white van...

Reviews are the Post-Punch-Up Winchester Of Your Choice Willing To Indulge In Enjoyable Exertion In The Trailer Of Life!*

Don't try the reciprocating force-out unless you have a bottle of that liniment handy.


	22. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Alfonso was just sitting down to the veal scallopini that his nonna had dished up, when there was a knock at the trailer door. It was Sam Winchester, and he had that adorable little Chihuahua tucked under one arm.

After politely brushing off Nonna Martello's attempts to feed him, Sam explained that he and Dean were leaving. However, their Chihuahua, Luciano, was actually a lot older than he looked, and was really not up to the more vigorous tricks any longer. Ideally, he would go into a semi-retirement, and since he liked Alfonso so much, and Alfonso seemed quite fond of the little dog, would he be prepared to consider...

Sam didn't get a chance to finish his request. Alfonso swept Lucifer up into his arms, hugging him, and tearfully repeating "Il Divo, Il Divo," as the little dog wagged his tail furiously and kissed Anfonso's nose. Sam made a smiling withdrawal, and Luciano the Chihuahua spent that night, and many more, snuggled onto Alfonso's lap, being fed tidbits as Nonna Martello lovingly scolded them both.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Two days later, Dean and Sam stood in the small church, accompanied by Bobby, with a vicar who was well used to dealing with Hunters and their sometimes... abrupt temperaments.

"Who brings this child of God to be baptised?" he asked.

"I do," growled Dean, "I'm his big brother."

"And who stands as godparent?" the vicar asked.

"That would be me," nodded Bobby, who'd put on a pressed suit and a freshly washed cap for the occasion.

"The role of godparent," the vicar intoned, "Is a serious one, for as we welcome this child Samuel into the family of Christ, it is the role of..."

"Look, Padre," Dean cut him off, "We don't really want to be welcomed into the family of Christ, okay? We've met them. They're dicks. Except for one or two. But they're not any family we'd want to join. Like I explained, I just want my brother baptised so no asshole witch can try to use pieces of him for spells in the future."

"Dean," groaned Sam.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean scowled, "I'm doing this for your own good, not to make a cheerful noise unto some deadbeat absentee dad and his dysfunction bunch of dick sons. So, just make with the sprinkling, so we can get on our way."

"Er, yes, yes, all right," the vicar rolled his eyes on the inside, and dipped his hand into the holy water as Sam leaned over the font. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I welcome you into the family of God, and christen this child Samuel..." he paused. "Did you wish to take a baptismal saint's name? Many families like to do so."

"Francis," supplied Dean promptly.

"_What?"_ squeaked Sam.

"I christen this child Samuel Francis Winchester," the vicar made a final swipe of holy water across Sam's forehead. "Amen."

"May God bless him and all who sail in him," added Dean, "Thanks Padre. Come on, Samuel Francis, we got a suspected shtriga to kill..."

"Dean!" Sam followed his brother with a megaton-range Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted) in place. "I don't _believe_ you had me christened Francis!"

"All I did was formalise the existing reality," smirked Dean, as he slid behind the wheel of the Impala. "You were born a Francis."

"I hate you," Sam growled, starting up his laptop.

He was silent for the better part of an hour.

"So, you want to stop for something to eat, Samuel Francis?" grinned Dean.

"Yeah, food soon would be good," Sam agreed.

"I suppose you'll want some of your rabbit food, Samuel Francis," tsked Dean.

"I'll see what's on the menu," Sam shrugged.

Dean frowned. "What're you doing, Samuel Francis?" he asked.

"Research," came the reply.

"On what?" Dean pressed.

"Parish records," Sam told him.

"Checking out birth dates to scope out possible next targets for our shtriga, Samuel Francis?"

"Nope," Sam anwered serenely, "Christening records for Lawrence, Kansas, 1979..."

The Impala screeched to a halt on the shoulder.

"Give me that!" demanded Dean, grabbing for the laptop. "Samuel Francis Winchester, as your big brother and baptismal sponsor, I demand that you stop _right now_!"

"Aha!" Sam barked in triumph. "Success! Here it is, June 1979... oh, you gotta be kidding me..."

"You shut that thing RIGHT NOW!" roared Dean.

"Of course. Sorry." Sam meekly shut down his laptop. "Let's go eat."

"All right." Dean eased the Impala off the shoulder and back onto the road. "We can get you your egg white omelette and watercress smoothie, Samuel Francis."

"Sounds great... Dean Basil."

"Look I didn't ask for that," Dean grated out, "It was a baptismal name from Mom's family, okay?"

"Oh, I understand," Sam nodded vigorously, "I totally understand, having a name foisted on you by your family, Dean Basil Winchester."

"Sam..."

"Yes, Dean Basil?"

"I order you to forget that."

"Forget what, Dean Basil?"

"Bitch."

"You're a jerk, Dean Basil Winchester."

"I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sheriff Jody Mills didn't remember putting in any request to have a K9 unit assigned to her office, but one day, an earnest young handler turned up with a large, handsome German Shepherd named Mike.

The dog was an amazing animal, able to turn his paw to patrol, siege breaking, drug sniffing, tracking, and, on one memorable occasion, tackling a gunman who was drawing a bead on her.

When she was asked to pose with him for a photo for a local newspaper, she noticed the St Michael medal on his collar. It had been there when he'd come to the training facility, his handler explained, and it made sense – after all, Michael the Archangel was the patron saint of law enforcement personnel, and who wouldn't want him watching their backs?

Jody stared hard at the dog, but all he did was sit at attention with a noble and resolute expression.

It was only after he turned a pirouette for her in her office one day then threw himself at her feet for a belly rub that she laughed until she thought she'd be sick, and started keeping a small bag of liver treats for him in her desk.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Carla Osborne was the manager of the Long Ears Donkey Rescue sanctuary. She happened to be in the middle of a storm of paperwork regarding the delivery of some feed, while reviewing an application to adopt one of the farm's rehabilitated charges, while she was on the phone trying to arrange a pick-up of an elderly donkey who'd been dumped beside a busy highway, whilst reviewing the notes on a painfully malnourished little jenny who was due to drop her foal any day, all while trying to avoid the affectionate attention of Gigantor (a miniature donkey who'd learned to open the door and liked to curl up on the large fraying sofa in the office, unless a human was present, in which case he'd much rather attempt to curl up in their lap) when the solemn-faced man had appeared silently at her desk.

"I am Raphael," he told her in a deep, almost mournful voice. "I am here for the donkey."

"Oh, Billy," Carla sighed. Billy had been brought in a week ago. He had been badly beaten, his wounds were infected, he was severely lame in one hind leg and he was so terrified that he became savage if a human tried to get anywhere near him. After a reluctant discussion with the local veterinarian, they had come to the sad conclusion that euthanasia was the kindest thing they could do for the poor old thing, and the nearby surgery had promised to send someone to dispatch him humanely. "He's in hospital pen number three. Be careful, he's so frightened, he'll lash out at anything, poor old boy..."

"I shall deal with him," Raphael said, leaving immediately.

Carla hated that aspect of the job, but sometimes it was for the best. She dealt with the paperwork, gave up on trying to dislodge Gigantor from the sofa (when Gigantor napped, he napped _hard_), then decided to check on the pregnant jenny after she'd seen to poor Billy and thanked Raphael for undertaking the sad task.

She was therefore a bit surprised when she made her way to the hospital pens, and found Billy, his wounds cleaned out, nibbling companionably from the bunch of carrots that Raphael was sharing between him and the shy mother-to-be, who stretched her neck through the fence and whickered gently to Billy.

"Oh," was all she managed to say.

"He was afraid, and in pain," Raphael said, not looking up from patting the shaggy old neck, "Once I explained to him that you want to help him, he was less frightened."

"Er, that's... wonderful," Carla managed to say eventually. "I see you've made friends with Tilly, too."

"She will have her foal tonight," Raphael intoned with a small smile, "A beautiful jack foal."

"Right, right," Carla nodded. "Um, may I ask, how do you know that?"

Raphael gave her a strange look. "She told me," he replied. Giving Billy a final pat, he stood and walked past her. "I believe that next I would like to speak to Gomer," he stated, "He is feeling unwell, but it is just on account of his habit of bolting his food. Some reassurance will soothe him."

Raphael turned up to the sanctuary every morning after that, and was always there until after Carla left. He never completed a volunteer application, but she'd never seen anyone who was so good with the donkeys. In return, they all seemed to love him back. One of the other volunteers once asked him what his secret was, and he replied very seriously: "I listen to what they have to say."

They'd all pretty much decided that he was some sort of Rainman character, but he was such an asset nobody ever complained. He certainly had a talent for boosting their fund-raising activities, too. Whenever they had a charity auction or a highway collection, Carla soon learned to make sure that Raphael was involved. He didn't like taking time away from the donkeys, but somehow, he only had to stare hard at someone and they ended up stuffing large denomination notes into his tin...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Yup, Gabriel thougth glumly to himself, big brothers sucked the fat one, big time.

They'd all been allowed to go off and do their own thing to learn more about humanity, whilst their Father had given him a job to do. What sort of favouritism was that? What sort of a thank you was that? And after he'd been lingual, cultural and sexual interpreter for them, too.

And they hadn't done a damned thing to protest to Father about it.

And really, he'd hardly blown a note, just a little arpeggio, really, it's not like he'd really given it a mega-honk. Why, the windows had barely vibrated, only a few of them cracked a little, and a bit of celestial caulking and a lick of multi-dimensional paint, so to speak, would have the walls looking as good as new. And frankly, the Choir were all sissies who needed to unwind a bit anyway. Who would've known that their startled shrieking would reach notes that not even angelic voices had ever reached before?

It wasn't fair.

He neared his destination, and assumed the form that he'd be expected to take. At least convention permitted him to take his instrument with him.

Even if this particular belief system described him as dinging on a small silver hexagon.

He located the appropriate person, assumed the required form, and manifested.

The young female Froodian was bent over a workspace covered in messily etched carbon crystals, notes from her field work. A formally etched copy of her thesis, which had won her academic plaudits for her original discoveries – 'The Whoopee Cushion: A Novel Artefact In Sibling Interrelation Among Uniparous Bipeds Of The Gaargu System's Third Planet, And It's Implications For Interpretation Of B'Goola And Therban's Paradox. An Analysis Of Cultural Significance As An Alternative To Excretion Of Odiferous Intestinal Gases' - sat at her left elbows. Gabriel appeared before her, and banged importantly on his six-sided triange.

_ding ding ding ding_ "Rejoice, O unwed bride," _ding ding ding ding,_ "For I bring to you great tidings of momentous import." _ding ding ding ding_

She looked up at him. "If you have news of my application for post-doctoral funding for another field trip, that's great," she said, "Otherwise, I'm very busy."

_ding ding ding ding_ "For unto you has been granted... what?" _ding ding._ Gabriel frowned. "Would you at least look at me when I'm Enunciating unto you?"

The young Froodian regarded him. "Enunciating, is it?" she guffawed. "Did Meeblef put you up to this?"

"What? No!" _ding ding ding ding_ Gabriel glared at her. "Do you have any idea who I am?" _ding ding ding ding_

"Well, you have three pairs of golden floopers, you are dressed in the traditional robes of the Elders, and you are banging away on a jungar," she counted off on her fingers, "Plus, there's the whole Enunciating thing, so, I'm guessing that you're meant to be one of the Great Chemist's Catalysts."

"Meant to..." _DING DING DING DING_ "Hey, listen up, sister!" Gabriel shot back angrily, "I AM one of the Four Catalysts! I am Gambrilz, The Expositor, come unto you at the behest of my Brood-parent, the Great Chemist" _ding ding ding ding_ "To inform you" _ding ding ding ding _"That you have been Chosen" _ding ding_ _ding ding_ "For a grave and momentous responsibility, one that will bring to you and your people much joy..." _ding ding ding ding _

She cocked her head and laughed. "Oh, good grief, do you mean the Prophesy of the Great Reactor?" she smiled. "She who shall be born unto a brood-mother who has not yet Flown? Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" _DING DING DING DING_ Gabriel vibrated with annoyance. "Look, you have been chosen to be the mother of the brood-Daughter of the Great Chemist!" _DINGDINGDINGDING_ "She will walk amongst you, and bring hope and Redemption and the wisdom and love of the Great Chemist to your entire race! You will be revered as Divinely Blessed, a Holy Brood-mother..."

"Of course it's ridiculous," she waved a forelimb dismissively, "Look, the Theses of the Great Chemist were written, what, how many thousands of years ago? It was all well and good for prophets to make up stories about virgin hatchings then, because our civilisation was pre-scientific. And of course, back then we were much less enlightened; females dominated society, so they could make themselves out to be these impossibly pure and righteous creatures if they wanted to."

He ploughed on doggedly. "For unto you shall be hatched a female-broodling" _ding ding ding ding_ "Half a Revolution from now" _ding ding ding ding_ "Though you be Unwed and Unflown" _ding ding_ _ding ding_, "And all shall rejoice at..."

"Zembif and I plan not to marry until he has finished his field-work," she told him firmly, "And has the first polished draft of his thesis ready to be reviewed. I will most certainly NOT be flown before we are properly joined, he is NOT that sort of male, and I will respect his family's wishes on that matter. And stop banging on that thing, I'm getting a headache."

Gabriel gritted his teeth. "Look" _ding ding ding ding_ _ding ding ding ding_ "You" _ding_ "Are" _ding _"Going" _ding _"To" _ding_ "Have" _ding_ "The" _ding_ "Daughter" _ding_ "Of" _ding_ "The" _ding_ "Great" _ding_ "Chemist" _ding_ "So GET USED TO THE IDEA YOU AGGRAVATING LITTLE HERETIC!" _**DINGDINGDINGDINGDING** **DWANNNG** CLONK_

His jungar broke.

The young Froodian cocked a feeler at him.

"Look, I have been studying life sciences since my floopers matured. Virgins – do – not – have – offspring. That was just a bit of propaganda to keep the uneducated rabble in line, and justify the social oppression of males, back when people needed to believe in Special Imaginary Friends living somewhere in the middle of the Groongar Nebula. Now, if you're going to stand there spouting outdated religious claptrap, I'd rather you just went away. You can tell Meeblef that he should leave the 'pranking' to the bipeds. I am busy."

Gabriel bit through his jungar.

He'd always known that his Father had a sense of humour; but sending his youngest Archangel to Enunciate an impending Divine Virgin Birth to an emancipated atheist was just...

When his big brothers found out, he had a feeling they were going to laugh themselves sick.

_**THE END...**_

_**ALMOST?**_

* * *

Another plot bunny stomped! Huzzah! *runs around waving arms about in deranged triumph* Now I've done Archangels, I think I've given pretty much all the fanfic tropes the Lampito treatment. I suppose it won't take too long until another one comes along, darn them all to heck. Personally, I blame the Denizens. I shudder to think what might be next. I still have to do something with that story about Jimi and Patch's 3/4-Hellhound puppies. Grumpy Old Winchesters? A trip Down Under? Ronnie goes into labour with her pup, and Dean is the only one within miles to help deliver it? Dean annoys a witch, and is cursed to look... not hot? We'll see.

Meanwhile, you know the drill. Reviews make the bunnies breed! Oh, and tallying numbers of reviews is also how I work out who gets to be on the DDD&SSS crew *grin*... Can we get this one over 400? Go to it, Denizens!

Oh, look, there's a little bunny now. Just a very small one. What does it want?... Hmmmm?... What? Crowley? Oh, all right. Denizens. They are demanding.


	23. Coda

Okay, okay, so for everybody who wanted to know what happened to Crowley after Lucifer was let out of the cage... demanding, the Denizens does it. You better review *humphs grumpily*

* * *

**CODA**

Orgle was dabbing delicately at the stain on the rug in the ante room of Crowley's office. Crowley had shredded a crossroads demon who had been skimming, and he'd casually told Orgle to get another rug, but Orgle knew that Mr Crowley was in fact quite fond of that particular rug, because of the motif of cute little Hellhounds frolicking around the edge dismembering screaming souls, and he thought it would be a nice surprise for his boss if he could just get it cleaned up. Poor Mr Crowley could do with a little bit of sunshine in his day because he was always worried about something, why just a few days ago he'd received a letter that had led to him shrieking like a frightened imp and running around in circles flapping his hands up and down until Orgle had poured him a triple shot of his Craig, it was the stress of the job, Orgle didn't envy the poor demon any of it, he really should take some time off, contact his pal Charon and spend some time in Europe maybe, he'd heard that the chocolate pastries in France were enough to cheer up the most stressed and depressed senior executives...

Orgle was just wondering whether it might be a nice idea to send one of the more trusworthy imps Topside to fetch some pain au chocolat when the phone rang.

He stared at it. On the one hand, Mr Crowley had seen that strange 'Voicemail' thing installed, which meant that if the phone rang while he was away, something even stranger and more evil than a demon would take care of it. On the other hand, very few people called Mr Crowley's office anymore; he had decreed that he would do business online, and people should use the web-based pro forma in order to contact the Interactions Team. This meant that the only people who phoned Mr Crowley were the few important ones who were comfortable blithely ignoring the edicts of the King of Hell.

One of those few was Verael the Fallen, the Senior Librarian and Administrative Officer of Hell. She had gone very close to smiting Crowley's phone the time she had called him and gone through to Voicemail; certainly, she'd sent Mr Crowley a little yellow note stuck to one of the regular update files that had made his boss's face drain of colour.

He made a decision. Clearing two of his throats, he carefully picked up the receiver in one massive taloned paw.

"Good Morning," he said pleasantly, "This is Mr Crowley's office. I am Fiend Orgle. How may I torment you today?"

"Hello, Orgle," said an unfamiliar voice fondly, "Still cleaning up after your boss, then?"

"Mr Crowley is a very busy demon," Orgle answered, with just a hint of reproach, "It is my job to take care of small matters so that he may concentrate on the business of delivering the very best in diabolical services to you, the customer, in order to cater to all your Perditon needs. May I help you?"

"Perhaps you can," the voice chuckled. "I should like to make an appointment to see Mr Crowley, as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?"

Orlge blinked in astonishment. Nobody bothered to make appointments to see Mr Crowley, no matter how many memos he sent out or how many Outlook tutorials the made them sit through, they just turned up and tried to barge in if they wanted to see him. Usually Orgle and Gedda managed to run interference if Mr Crowley was away or did not wish to be abused, belittled or yelled at by a member of Hell's Hierarchy.

"Please wait a moment," replied Orgle, tapping carefully at the keyboard. "Mr Crowley can see you anytime this afternoon," he announced. "May I ask what it is that you would like to discuss with him?"

"Well, basically, I'd like to talk to him about the wonderful job I think he's been doing," the voice chortled warmly. "The same goes for you, Orgle. You are a diligent individual, and, might I add, you have the patience of a saint, and I hope you won't take that as an insult."

"Oh, thank you," all of Orgle's mouths smiled, "If you would like to leave Feedback at any time, you may also visit our website and complete the Customer Satisfaction Survey. We value your opinion."

"I'm sure you do," laughed the voice, "I shall see you later, Orgle. No need for formalities, I can let Myself in."

"We look forward to seeing you, thank you for calling Hell," finished Orgle.

It was only after the caller had hung up that he realised he didn't get a name.

Never mind, he thought, they'd find out soon enough when their visitor arrived. It was bound to cheer Mr Crowley up, he smiled to himself as he returned to the rug, if someone was coming to give him a bit of a pat on the back. He didn't get enough of that. The only thing they ever got via the Feedback page was rude words...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Crowley hardly noticed the beep of notification from the computer, and barely listened to Orgle tell him excitedly about how somebody had actually made an appointment - he was too busy giving himself a pep talk. Events in recent days - the sudden departure of Michael and Lucifer from the Cage and their subsequent disappearance, and the letter from... _Him_ had been thoroughly discombobulating. But he was the King of Hell, damn it, he was the sneakiest, slyest, most ruthless, most cunning, most manipulative, most intelligent bastard Downstairs, and he was King of Hell for a reason. There had been no smiting, no angry accusations of usurpation from Father or Fallen son; the fact that he was still there, running Hell, meant that neither his own demonic 'father', or... Him intended to do anything drastic in the immediate future. He had time to plan, time to scheme, time to consolidate his position, make himself so integral to the running of the place that they didn't dare smite, demote or otherwise annoy him for fear of the diabolical, existential and administrative chaos that would break out.

"I'm King of Hell," he said out loud, "I'm King of the Crossroads and King of Hell, and no miserable Holier Than Me absentee father of any sort is going to mess with that!"

Gedda whuffed supportively, and jumped into his lap to lick at his nose affectionately. "We'll always have each other, won't we, Gedda my darling?" he crooned to her. The little Hellpoodle wagged her tail furiously.

There was a knock at the door, and Orgle entered when he called "Come in!" The fiend stepped into the room. There was something about him...

"Orgle," Crowley asked frowning, "Are you all right? You look..." the beaming fiend was... "You look... radiant."

"He's here, Mr Crowley," beamed Orgle, "He's here. Your visitor. And... He's wonderful..."

"Very well," grinned Crowley, seating himself casually on his rosewood bidet. A bit of snide sniping at some bootlicking demon looking to curry favour by making an appointment and telling him what a fantastic boss he was would be just the thing to improve his state of mind. "Please show our visitor in."

Orgle did.

"Hello, Crowley," smiled the visitor.

Crowley's eyes bugged, and he went very close to doing something that bidets are not usually used for.

_"Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"_ squeaked the King of Hell, frozen in place in terror.

"No, no, don't get up on My account," God waved a hand casually and sat on one of the sofas. "I expect you received My memo by now, yes?"

_"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"_ squealed Crowley.

"Good, good," nodded God. "Now, I thought it would be nice if I could come and visit you, and have a chat with you. Official correspondence is so formal, and a bit stilted, I find. Good Me, just look at that book they call the Bible. It's like a game of Chinese Whispers run amok. Of course, I have asked Orgle to take a record of this conversation, since I'm sure Verael will want something to put in the Archives, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, yes, Your Visiting Godness," nodded Orgle, taloned paw flying across his shorthand pad, "Senior Librarian Verael is very keen on proper record keeping. Also, promptness, neatness, and pushing the chairs back in at the end of the day."

"She has so much in common with her sister Danael," smiled God. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering what's been going on, with My return, and what with My two eldest leaving the Cage, would I be correct?"

_"Bleeeeeeeeeeeek!"_ went Crowley.

"Well, yes, I am back, but I shall have other things to deal with, so for now, I intend to leave Castiel in charge of running Heaven, since the youngster is doing such a good job, so you can continue to deal with him in all pertinent matters," God said. "My two eldest are currently, how shall I put this, getting to know humanity better," God went on. "I suspect it will take some time. Now, I'm sure you're also wondering what implications their release has for yourself and your position here."

_"Nyeeeeeeeeep!"_ went Crowley.

"Well, I just wanted to tell you, I think you have been doing a great job of running Hell," God enthused, "Seriously. You have a flair for it. Lucifer was never terribly keen on the boring bits - the administration, the organisation, the details that make the place _work_ - and frankly, I can't see him wanting to fly a desk again any time soon, now he's getting a taste of something else." God concentrated for a moment. "Veal scallopini right now, in fact."

_"Fleeeeeeeeeeeb!"_ went Crowley.

"So, what with you doing such an excellent job here, I would be happy, no, I would be grateful, if you could continue in the position of Chief Executive Officer in charge of Hell," God told him. "Lucifer has had a lot to think about in the last few days, and I'm sure that petty revenge against his own creations will not even cross his mind, so you need not worry on that account. So, will you stay in the job?"

_Breeeeeeeeeeep!_ "went Crowley.

"Excellent!" God clapped His hands, and stood. "I'm glad to hear it. Well, goodbye Crowley. Keep up the good work. Orgle will see me out. I might just pay a visit to Verael on My way out," He added. "I shall tell her to expect your transcript shortly," He nodded to Orgle, "And I shall commend your diligence to her."

"Thank You, Your Godness," Orgle smiled shyly, rising to show God out of the office. "Incidentally, if she has any TimTam cookies, be careful if You dunk them: they have a tendency to look like they're holding integrity, then they disintegrate suddenly. Verael is very keen on good manners, and dropping pieces of soggy cookie on the carpet makes her frown."

"I shall remember that," God assured him on the way out.

Orgle returned moments later, looked at his boss still frozen in place on the bidet, then poured him a quadruple shot of whisky.

Then he put the glass down, opened a fresh bottle, and put a straw in it.

"Drink this, Mr Crowley," he suggested gently, pushing the bottle into Crowley's unresisting hands.

"He... He... He..." wheezed the King of Hell.

"He came to tell you that He thinks you're doing a great job!" prompted Orgle. "And He wants you to keep doing it! That's high praise, Mr Crowley, from as far up the corporate ladder as it's possible to go! You should be very proud!"

"Oh, yes," giggled Crowley, "I'm so proud, I could just... pass out..."

Orgle smiled with all his mouths. His boss was clearly overcome by the excitement of the occasion.

"I'll just be in the outer office, typing out this for the Archives," he told his boss. Crowley made that funny squeaking noise again; he'd just leave him to savour the moment. "And I'll make sure that absolutely NOBODY comes in to disturb you," he added resolutely, drawing himself up to his full height. "They won't get past me, Mr Crowley!"

As he sat at the computer and began to transcribe his notes - after a moment he sent a message to Verael, asking for her guidance on how to render the noises that Mr Crowley had made as accurately as possible -Orgle noticed the rug he'd been working on. It was pristine, the cavorting Hellhounds crisply visible against the dark red background.

Orgle smiled to himself. When he finished his transcript, he wrote a short thank you note to Upstairs on Mr Crowley's behalf, because he was sure that it was what his boss would want.

Crowley was still giggling and muttering to himself an hour later. Orgle opened him another bottle of whisky, and withdrew. He was a simple fiend, and it did both his hearts good to see his boss so happy for a change.

_**REALLY THE END**_

* * *

... unless there's a visit from a certain van... did you know the DDD&SSS van runs on an alternative fuel made out of reviews? You can trust me, I'm a scientist.


	24. SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE

The Denizens: they know what they want, and they know how to get it. Le sigh.

* * *

_**SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM BETWEEN CHAPTER TWENTY AND EPILOGUE!**_

_Upstairs at Singer Salvage_

**Sam:**Waaaaaah! I hate clooooooooowns! *sniff*

_Downstairs at Singer Salvage_

**Dean:** Oooooooow, it huuuuuuurts!

**Bobby:** Serves you right for tryin' that reciprocatin' force-out, ya idjit.

_Dean's bottom lip wobbles perilously_

**Bobby:** I could always rub some of that liniment on your...

**Dean:** AAAAAAAARRRGH!

_White van with DENIZENS' DEAN DESTRESSING & SAM SOOTHING SERVICES on the side pulls up at Singer Salvage._

*knock knock knock*

**Bobby:** ? ? ? ?

_He answers door. The DDD&SSS are lined up on the porch. They sing their jingle._

**DDD&SSS:** Have your Winchesters been roughed up by an evil clowning act?  
Do you need someone to sort them out with tenderness and tact?  
Call DDD&SSS for boo-boos great or small,  
We're local and we're prompt and they will hardly scream at all.

**Bobby:** Thank goodness you're here, those idjits are driving me mad.

**Georgia:** Hmmmm. *assumes concerned expression* What are their symtoms?

**Bobby:** Sam's sooking like a three year old, and Dean has suddenly turned into a blushing shy violet.

**aeicha:** I don't like the sound of that shyness. Could be very serious. *frowns seriously*

**Darla M:** Have you tried any treatment for their symptoms, Mr Singer?

**Bobby:** I gave Sam a lettuce wrapped in an old towel, and tucked a porn mag under Dean's pillow.

**KnightJelly:** Hmmmmm. Did this provide any symptomatic relief? Alleviation of wibbles, wobbles or sooking?

**Bobby:** Not really; Sam's puppy-dog eyes have hit Level Awwwwww, and if Dean's bottom lip wobbles any harder, seismologists are gonna start gettin' excited.

**Leahelisabeth:** Hmmmmm. Allow us to confer a moment with our colleagues.

*DDD&SSS operatives go into a huddle, and make erudite-sounding noises*

**Maybe-moey, d767464, stupid-nickel, Lilith L and bearberry:** Harumph harumph harumph harumph harumph HARUMPH HARUMPH harumph harumph. Harumph.

**Steelhorse67:** Upon extensive discussion, we believe we know what is wrong with your Winchesters.

**keacdragon (nodding sagely):** We believe that your poor, poor boys are suffering from a constellation of ailments. First of all, Sam clearly has Circus Perkus, the urge to throw up every time he thinks about clowns.

**vsama (nodding in agreement):** While Dean has Circus Bezerkus, an affliction caused by unwise trapezing.

**Bobby:** I knew it! I told that boy he shouldn't have tried that reciprocating force-out!

**Bartlebead:** He may also have a complicating case of Circus Jerkus, brought on by making fun of a younger sibling.

**Knivespast:** Certainly, he sounds like he might be suffering from Circus Smirkus, which is usually an opportunistic secondary infection in such cases.

**Bobby (with face in hands):** Oh, this is terrible! Can you do anything?

**Katiki:** We certainly can! And some of it might even be therapeutic for them.

*the DDD&SSS don white coats and serious expressions*

**Nyx Ro:** You can leave them with us, Mr Singer, we are all highly qualified to deal with This Sort Of Thing.

**ccase13:** All of our Sam Sanitising and Soothing and Dean Degreasing and Destressing Consultants have had extensive training in multiple therapy modalities.

**AnjEmm:** Including Osculation of Nociceptorial Sensation, and Dairy-based Albumin-Boosted Poulticing.

**Bobby:** You mean... kissing their booboos better and dunking them in custard?

*The DDD&SSS nod enthusiastically*

**PaulatheCat:** Meow, plus, for no additional charge, we will perform one of our world-famous chocolate therapy sessions. Plus leg massaging. Claws out by special request. Putting on the leather bustier costs extra.

**Bobby:** And will that make them feel better?

**SARA1988:** It will certainly make us feel better.

**Georgia:** And they will feel really good when we stop. *Consults clipboard* We can have them done in, oh, two hours or so.

**Bobby:** Wonderful! Have at 'em, ladies.

_Upstairs_

**DarlaM:** Now now, come along, you're a bit boy, let go of the lettuce.

**Sam (tearfully):** Don't hurt my lettuce!

**Leahelisabeth:** We're not here to hurt your lettuce. We're here to help you.

Sam (pouting adorably): What's that bucket of custard for?

**Katiki:** The custard is part of your anti-clown therapy. Clowns throw custard pies at each other. Therefore, custard will repel them.

**Sam:** Really?

**vsama:** Really. So, the more custard we can get onto you, the better you will feel.

*slosh slosh slosh rub rub rub*

**Sam:** Ooooh OOOOOH ooooooh do you all have to do that at once? Hey, that's a favourite shirt!

**Nyx Ro:** It's vitally important that we don't miss any spots, any hard-to-reach nooks and crannies...

**Steelhorse67:** I'll get the chocolate daubing brush, with special sideburns attachment.

**Leahelisabeth:** There's only one way to be certain; to the custard tub, ladies!

*They hustle Sam down the stairs and into the van, where they don face masks and snorkels and continue*

_Downstairs_

**aeicha:** You've been a very silly boy, haven't you?

**Dean:** AIEEEEEE! What are you doing. OooooOOOOOOer!

**KnightJelly:** Checking for rope marks.

**Dean:** I don't have any rope marks!

**Bartlebead:** Would you like some? Rope marks can be arranged.

**PaulatheCat:** I did mention that the leather bustiers cost extra.

**knivespast:** I think we have a pair of fluffy handcuffs that would be just your size.

**Dean:** AAAAAAAAARGH!

**keacdragon:** Hmmmm, definitely showing signs of stress.

**Bartlebead (prods Dean expertly):** Yes, see how tense he is.

**ccase13:** What's needed here is some theobromine-infused cacao therapy. Fetch the chocolate!

*slosh*

*strange slurping and muffled screams are heard*

_In the kitchen_

**Bobby:** So, what do you do?

**TheBlueOrleans:** Oh, I maintain the van, hose down the walls, paint over the scratch marks left by the desperate scrabbling of anyone trying to claw their way out of the custard tub before their therapy is done, and I also see to the upkeep of the pool table at DDD&SSS HQ. Occasionally, I hide under a table and advise others to do the same. *he glances at his watch* Speaking of which, get your coffee and follow me.

*he crawls under the table and arranges the tablecloth*

**Bobby:** Why are we under the table?

*they hear the kitchen door open*

**Lampito:** I know you're in here, Mr Singer, I'd recognise that scent, that irresistable mix of gun solvent, silicon sealant, dog anti-flea shampoo and burned spaghetti anywhere...

**Bobby:** Balls.

**TheBlueOrleans:** It's okay, I always bring a pack of cards.

**_FIN_**

* * *

I'm so excited that this one cracked 400 reviews. OMGWTFBBQ! Now, this story is completely and utterly stomped, and we can all get on with encouraging Bunny #3 to keep on dicating 'The Man Who Spewed Too Much'. Reviews rev the rabbit!


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